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.
26
B illy Collins’s partner was Detective Jennifer Dean, a handsome African-American woman his own age whom he had met at the Police Academy, where they had become fast friends. After a stint in the Narcotics Division, Jennifer had been promoted to detective and transferred to the Central Park Precinct. There, to their mutual satisfaction, she had been assigned to be his partner.
Together, they met with Tiffany Shields at Hunter College during her lunch break. By that time Tiffany had convinced herself that Zan Moreland had deliberately drugged both her and Matthew. “Zan insisted I have that Pepsi that day,” she told them, her mouth tightened into a narrow line. “I felt lousy. I didn’t want to babysit. She gave me a pill. I thought it was Tylenol for colds, but I think now it was the kind that makes you sleepy. And let me tell you something else.
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.
26
B illy Collins’s partner was Detective Jennifer Dean, a handsome African-American woman his own age whom he had met at the Police Academy, where they had become fast friends. After a stint in the Narcotics Division, Jennifer had been promoted to detective and transferred to the Central Park Precinct. There, to their mutual satisfaction, she had been assigned to be his partner.
Together, they met with Tiffany Shields at Hunter College during her lunch break. By that time Tiffany had convinced herself that Zan Moreland had deliberately drugged both her and Matthew. “Zan insisted I have that Pepsi that day,” she told them, her mouth tightened into a narrow line. “I felt lousy. I didn’t want to babysit. She gave me a pill. I thought it was Tylenol for colds, but I think now it was the kind that makes you sleepy. And let me tell you something else.
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