She picked up the phone and ordered the food. Grantham walked to the window and watched the lights crawling along Fifth Avenue.
"I'm twenty-four. How old are you?" She was on the sofa now, sipping ice water.
He took the chair nearest to her. "Thirty-eight. Married once. Divorced seven years and three months ago. No children. Live alone with a cat. Why'd you pick the St. Moritz?"
"Rooms were available, and I convinced them it was important to pay with cash and present no identification. Do you like it?"
"It's fine. Sort of past its prime."
"This is not exactly a vacation."
"It's fine. How long do you think we might be here?"
She watched him carefully. He'd published a book six years earlier on HUD scandals, and though it didn't sell she'd found a copy in a public library in New Orleans. He looked six years older than the photo on the dust jacket, but he was aging nicely with a touch of gray over the ears.
"I don't know how long you'll stay," she said. "My plans are subject to change by the minute. I may see a face on the street and fly to New Zealand."
"When did you leave New Orleans?"
"Monday night. I took a cab to Baton Rouge, and that would have been easy to follow. I flew to Chicago, where I bought four tickets to four different cities, including Boise, where my mother lives. I jumped on the plane to La Guardia at the last moment. I don't think anyone followed."
"You're safe."
"Maybe for the moment. We'll both be hunted when this story is published. Assuming it's published."
Gray rattled his ice and studied her. "Depends on what you tell me. And it depends on how much can be verified from other sources."
"The verification is up to you. I'll tell you what I know, and from there you're on your own."
"Okay. When do we start talking?"
"After dinner. I'd rather do it on a full stomach. You're in no hurry, are you?"
"Of course not. I've got all night, and all day tomorrow, and the next day and the next. I mean, you're talking about the biggest story in twenty years, so I'll hang around as long as you'll talk to me."
Darby smiled and looked away. Exactly a week ago, she and Thomas were waiting for dinner in the bar at Mouton's. He was wearing a black silk blazer, denim shirt, red paisley tie and heavily starched khakis. Shoes, but no socks. The shirt was unbuttoned and the tie was loose. They had talked about the Virgin Islands and Thanksgiving and Gavin Verheek while they waited on a table. He was drinking fast, and that was not unusual. He got drunk later, and it saved her life.
She had lived a year in the past seven days, and she was having a real conversation with a live person who did not wish her dead. She crossed her feet on the coffee table. It was not uncomfortable having him here in her room. She relaxed. His face said, "Trust me." And why not? Whom else could she trust?
"What are you thinking about?" he asked.
"It's been a long week. Seven days ago I was just another law student busting my tail to get to the top. Now look at me."
He was looking at her. Trying to be cool, not like a gawking sophomore, but he was looking. The hair was dark and very short, and quite stylish, but he liked the long version in yesterday's fax.
"Tell me about Thomas Callahan," he said.
"Why?"
"I don't know. He's part of the story, isn't he?"
"Yeah. I'll get to it later."
"Fine. Your mother lives in Boise?"
"Yes, but she knows nothing. Where's your mother?"
"Short Hills, New Jersey," he answered with a smile. He crunched on an ice cube and waited for her. She was thinking.
"What do you like about New York?" she asked.
"The airport. It's the quickest way out."
"Thomas and I were here in the summer. It's hotter than New Orleans."
Suddenly, Grantham realized she was not just a hot little coed, but a widow in mourning. The poor lady was suffering. She had not been checking out his hair or his clothes or his eyes. She was in pain. Dammit!
"I'm very sorry about Thomas," he said. "I won't ask about him again."
She smiled but said nothing.
There was a loud knock. Darby jerked her feet off the table, and glared at the door. Then she breathed deeply. It was the food.
"I'll get it," Gray said. "Just relax."
* * *
