25

At 12:15, a few minutes after they had spoken, Alvirah called Zan back. “Zan, I’ve been thinking,” she said. “There’s no question but that the police are going to want to talk to you. But before they do, you need to have a lawyer.”

“A lawyer! Alvirah, why?”

“Zan, because the woman in those pictures looks just like you. The police are going to be knocking at your door. I don’t want you answering questions without a lawyer beside you.”

Zan felt the numbness that had pervaded her mind and body begin to change into a deadly calm. “Alvirah, you really aren’t sure whether I’m the woman in those pictures, are you?” Then she added, “You don’t have to answer that. I understand what you are saying. Do you know a lawyer you would recommend?”

“Yes, I do. Charley Shore is a top-drawer criminal defense attorney. I did a column on him for my newspaper, and we became good friends.”

Criminal defense lawyer, Zan thought, bitterly. Of course. If I did take Matthew, I committed a crime.

Did I take Matthew?

Where would I have taken him? Who would I have given him to?

Nobody. It can’t have happened that way. I don’t care if I forgot that I stopped in at St. Francis’s the other night. I was so desperately unhappy with Matthew’s birthday coming up that maybe I did go in and light a candle for him. I’ve done that before. But I know that I never could have taken him out of that stroller and put him out of my life.

“Zan, are you still there?”

“Yes, Alvirah. Can you give me that lawyer’s number?”

“Sure. But don’t call him for ten minutes. I’ll get in touch with him first. After I speak to him, he’ll want to help you. I’ll see you tonight.”

Slowly Zan put the phone back on the cradle. A lawyer will cost money, she thought, money I could use to hire someone new to search for Matthew.

Kevin Wilson.

The thought of the architect’s name made her sit bolt upright. Of course he would see those photos and think that she had kidnapped Matthew. Of course he would expect her to be arrested. He’ll give the job to Bartley, Zan thought. I’ve spent so much time on it. I can’t lose it. I’ll need the money more than ever. I’ve got to talk to him!

She wrote a note for Josh and hurried out of the office, going down in the service elevator, and leaving the building by the service entrance. I don’t even know if Wilson will be there, she thought, as she hailed a cab. But if I have to sit outside his office all afternoon, I’ll do it.

I’ve got to ask him to give me a chance to clear myself.

It took nearly forty minutes in even heavier than usual traffic for Zan to reach the newly named 701 Carlton Place. The cab fare with tip was twenty-two dollars. It’s a good thing I have a credit card, she thought, as she looked in her wallet and realized she had only fifteen dollars in the billfold section.

It had been her cardinal rule to use the credit card as sparingly as possible. Whenever she could, she walked to her appointments. Funny how you concentrate on something like cab fare, she thought, as she entered the apartment building. It’s like when Dad and Mother died. At the funeral Mass I kept thinking that there was a spot on the jacket I was wearing. I kept asking myself why I hadn’t noticed it. I had another black jacket that I could have worn.

Is it that I’m taking refuge in trivia again? she asked herself, as she pushed the revolving door and walked into the deafening sound of the machines polishing marble in the lobby.

Kevin Wilson obviously only wants working space, she thought, as she walked down the equipment-laden corridor to the room he was using as an office. She knew that when everything was in place that area would serve as a delivery drop for tenants’ packages.

The door of his temporary office was partially open. She knocked, and without waiting for a response went in. There was a woman with blond hair standing at the table behind Wilson’s desk. From the astonished expression on her face when she turned around and saw her, Zan knew she had read the morning papers.

Even so, she introduced herself. “I’m Alexandra Moreland. I met with Mr. Wilson yesterday. Is he here?”

“I’m his secretary, Louise Kirk. He’s in the building, but …”

Trying not to cringe as she saw the agitation that was exuding from the other woman, Zan interrupted her. “It’s a beautiful building, and from what I saw of it yesterday the people who move in here will be very, very happy. I certainly hope to be part of it.”

I don’t know how I can sound so calm, she thought. And then immediately she had the answer. Because I must get this job. Zan waited silently, her eyes fixed on the other woman’s face.

“Ms. Moreland,” Kirk began, hesitantly. “There really isn’t any point in your waiting to see Kevin — I mean Mr. Wilson. Earlier this morning, he asked me to pack your proposal and return it to you. In fact, it’s right there if you want to take it now, or else I’ll have it delivered to you, of course.”

Zan did not look at the package on the table. “Where is Mr. Wilson?”

“Ms. Moreland, he really doesn’t …”

He’s in one of the model apartments, Zan thought. I know he is. She turned, walked around the desk and picked up the package of her fabrics and sketches. “Thank you,” she said.

In the lobby she headed straight for the elevators.

Wilson was not in the first apartment or in the second. She found him in the third, the largest unit. Sketches and fabric samples were laid out on the kitchen counter. Zan knew they had to be Bartley Longe’s designs for this apartment.

She walked over to stand next to Wilson and set her package down. Without greeting him, she began, “I’m going to tell you right now,” she said, “if you go with Bartley, the effect will be ravishing and damn hard to live with.” She picked up a sketch. “Beautiful,” she said. “But take a look at that love seat. It’s too low. People will avoid it like the plague. Look at those wall hangings. Simply gorgeous, and so-oo-oo formal. But this is a very large apartment. Maybe somebody who has kids will be interested in it, but this design isn’t going to inspire them. And no matter how much money you have, when you come home you want a home, not a museum. I offered you three different apartments that will make people feel comfortable.”

She realized that for emphasis she had grabbed his arm. “I’m sorry for barging in,” she said, “but I had to talk to you.”

“You have, so are you finished?” Kevin Wilson asked quietly.

“Yes, I am. You’ve probably heard that photographs have surfaced that appear to show me kidnapping the child I’ve been hungering to find for almost two years. We’ll know soon enough if I can prove that no matter how much the woman in those photos looks like me, it’s not me. Just answer one question. If the photos that I’m talking about didn’t exist, would you have given the job to Bartley Longe or me?”

Kevin Wilson studied Zan for a long minute before answering. “I was inclined to give it to you.”

“Well, then, I ask you, I beg you, don’t make a decision yet. I am going to be able to prove that whoever the woman in those photos is, it isn’t me. I’m going to see the client who is the reason I hired the babysitter to take Matthew to the park that day, and ask her to come with me to the police and prove that I could not have been in the park at that time. Kevin, if you go with Bartley simply because you prefer his designs, that’s one thing. But if you would have given me the job because you like my designs better, I implore you to let me clear my name. I implore you to wait before announcing a decision.”

She looked up into Wilson’s face. “I need this job. That doesn’t mean I’d expect you to give it to me out of pity, because that would be ridiculous. But every cent I can save is being squirreled away so that I can hire another agency to try to find my Matthew. And something else that you should think of. I bet I’m thirty percent cheaper than Bartley. That ought to count for something.”

Suddenly all the energy and fire was gone from her. She pointed to the package with her samples and sketches on the counter. “Would you consider looking at them again?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” Zan said, and without looking at Kevin Wilson again left the apartment. As she passed the floor-to-ceiling window at the elevator bank, she could see that the earlier drizzle had turned into a hard, driving rainstorm. She stopped for a moment to look out. A helicopter was hovering over the West Side Heliport preparing to land. She watched as the wind tossed it from one side to another. Finally, it settled down safely on the tarmac. It made it, she thought.

Dear God, please let me make it through this storm, too.