Night Secrets by Thomas H. Cook

She paused at the light on Fifth Avenue, then moved forward when it changed, heading nonchalantly across the wide avenue. It was only then, as he watched her from across the street, half-hidden by the stone wall which bordered the park, that something struck him, something that was missing. He edged himself forward slightly, still staring at her intently as she headed south, then made a quick turn onto Sixty-fourth Street and walked the short distance to her home. She was only a faint reddish blur when she passed through the little wrought-iron gate and disappeared into her house, but it was a blur from which something had already disappeared.
    He turned away from the street, let his eyes study the park. In his mind, he went over everything he’d seen, concentrating on something that was missing. He retraced her movements after she’d left her house early in the morning, the ride in the cab, paying the driver.
    He stopped.
    Paying the driver.
    She’d taken the money out of a small black purse that hung from her shoulder. She’d had the same purse a few hours later when she’d left the Dakota and headed into the park. She’d had it when she’d stood above the star-burst mosaic and as she’d walked along the circular path. She’d had it when she sat down amid the cluster of parents and children at the statue, amid all the paraphernalia of parenthood, bags, strollers, knapsacks … purses.
    Then he knew instantly that that’s where she’d left it, cleverly, like a letter hidden among other letters.
    He headed back toward the statue, walking quickly but inconspicuously, until he reached it. Then he sat down on the cement bench and let his eyes move around it, searching through all the other scattered array of things for the single small black purse he knew she’d still had with her when she’d sat down to watch the children. He looked once, twice, three times, futilely looked again and again and again, his eyes spinning around the rough gray rim of the cement bench like two dark balls around the wheel of chance.

M r. Phillips took a seat opposite Frank’s desk, glancing at his watch as he did so. “I’m not early, am I?”
    Frank shook his head.
    â€œI’m rather obsessive about time,” Phillips added. “I don’t like to be either early or late. I’m a little extreme. I admit it.”
    Frank said nothing.
    Phillips drew in a deep breath and folded his hands primly over the burnished leather briefcase which rested in his lap. “Well, what have you found out?”
    â€œA few things,” Frank told him. “Maybe you can help me put them together.”
    â€œGood,” Phillips said eagerly. “I’d like to think that we’re working together in a way. Perhaps something you say might trigger something in me that could help us both.”
    Frank nodded. “Okay,” he said. He took out his notebook and flipped to the appropriate page. “This is what I have so far.”
    Phillips leaned forward expectantly. “Fine, fine. Anything might help.”
    â€œI’ve been trailing her for the last two days,” Frank said. “On Monday morning, she left the house at 9:15 A.M. and walked to the Pierre Hotel. She went to the second floor, a meeting of a group called Friends of the Rain Forest.”
    â€œYes, I know that group,” Phillips said immediately. “It’s one of Virginia’s pet projects.” He shrugged. “Should be harmless enough.”
    Frank nodded crisply and went on. “She left the meeting at 12:15 P.M., walked to the corner of Fifty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue. From there, she took a taxi to the Village, 124 West Twelfth Street.”
    Phillips leaned forward slightly. “What’s down there?”
    â€œIt was a brownstone,” Frank told him. “The name on the door was Kevin A. Powers.”
    Phillips stared at Frank quizzically.