Fear City by F. Paul Wilson Page A

Clients?
    When he finished the card he said, “Can I peek at the working conditions?”
    With an exasperated look she walked to a door at the other end of the office. Jack caught a glimpse of a number of women sitting in little booths talking into headsets before he stepped to the filing cabinet and pulled open the top drawer.
    â€œHey!” the woman said. “What do you think you’re doing?”
    As she came toward him Jack found the C’s and flipped through the folders. The third was labeled Celebrations . He pulled it open as the boss lady arrived and tried to close the drawer on his hands.
    â€œGet away from there!”
    He backed away, but not before spotting the billing address, and a name: Rebecca J. Olesen.
    â€œJust curious.”
    Her face was red with fury as she reached for her phone. “I’m calling the police!”
    â€œNo need,” he said, hurrying for the door.
    He hit the stairs running and burst out onto Ninth Avenue where he quick-walked down toward 42nd Street. He headed east, stopping along the way to buy a large, padded manila envelope. When he reached Grand Central Station, he turned downtown for three blocks to East 39th.
    Murray Hill. A high-rent neighborhood and home to a host of foreign diplomats connected to the UN. The number in the folder turned out to be an old brownstone renovated into office space.
    He took the two steps down to the entrance. A world of difference from Ninth Avenue. The door was thick, unsmudged glass. As he’d suspected when he’d seen the address, a security camera was mounted on the ceiling and pointed right at him. He checked the call buttons, set in polished brass. The third one down was labeled CELEBRATIONS . He pressed it.
    Eventually a woman’s voice said, “Yes?”
    â€œPackage for Celebrations,” he said, sounding bored.
    Whoever she was she probably had a monitor that let her see who was at the door. She must have been satisfied with his appearance because she buzzed him in.
    As he entered the vestibule, a woman stepped through a door at the end of the hall and approached him. She had ash-blond hair, wore a business pantsuit, and looked to be in her late forties. Jack found her fairly attractive for a woman twice his age. She held out her hand as she neared.
    â€œCelebrations?” he said.
    She nodded. “Do you need me to sign?”
    â€œNo,” he said as he handed her the unsealed, unaddressed envelope. “I need you to tell me if you’ve heard from Cristin Ott.”
    â€œWho?” Did she flinch at the name? He couldn’t be sure.
    â€œCristin. Ott.” He pronounced the name carefully. “She didn’t come home last night.”
    â€œI’m sorry. I’ve never heard of her.”
    The concern in her eyes said otherwise. But concern for whom? Herself or Cristin?
    â€œI’m pretty sure you have, Rebecca Olesen.”
    â€œI don’t know how you know my name but I’m very sure I have not heard of hers.”
    â€œShe says—has said for years—that she works for Celebrations. Is there someone higher up the chain I can speak to?”
    â€œI’m it, I’m afraid. I’m Celebrations. And I don’t know your Cristin Ott.” She pulled a cellular phone from her jacket pocket. “And if you don’t leave right now I’m going to call the police.”
    The same threat, twice in an hour. For an instant Jack considered grabbing the phone and threatening to flatten her nose with it if she didn’t tell him. Because she knew—even if she didn’t know Cristin personally, she knew the name.
    Instead, he said, “You won’t help me find her? I’ve got a bad feeling about her.”
    There. A flinch. No question about it. “I wish I could help you, I really do, but I simply don’t know her. Now please leave.”
    Jack decided this was neither the time nor place to press the issue. He’d