Pretend You Don't See Her Read Online Free PDF Page B

closed as Caldwell pushed
against it, and then to bolt it?
                 She
leaned against the door, hearing the lock click as he tried to get back into
the apartment, remembering the look of the stalking predator in his pale blue
eyes in that instant in which they had stared at each other.
                 Isabelle!
                 Dial
911 … Get help!
                 She
had stumbled up the winding staircase, then through the ivory-and-peach sitting
room and into the bedroom, where Isabelle was lying across the bed. There was
so much blood, spreading now to the floor.
                 Isabelle
was moving, pulling at a sheaf of papers that were under a pillow. The blood
was on them too.
                 Lacey
wanted to tell Isabelle that she would get help … that it would be all right, but
Isabelle began to try to speak: “Lacey … give Heather’s … journal … to her
father.” She seemed to be gasping for air. “Only to him … . Swear that … only … to him. You … read it … Show … him … where …” Her voice
trailed off. She drew in a shuddering breath, as though trying to stave off
death. Her eyes were becoming unfocused. Lacey knelt next to her. With the last
of her strength, Isabelle squeezed Lacey’s hand. “Swear … please … man …!”
                 “I
do, Isabelle, I do,” Lacey said, her voice breaking with a sob.
                 Suddenly
the pressure on her hand was gone. She knew that Isabelle was dead.
                 “You
all right, Lacey?”
                 “I
guess so.” She was in the library of Isabelle’s apartment, seated in a leather
chair facing the desk where Isabelle had been seated just a few hours ago,
reading the contents of the leather loose-leaf binder.
                 Curtis
Caldwell had been carrying that binder. When he heard me he must have grabbed
it, not realizing that Isabelle had taken pages out of it. Lacey hadn’t seen it
that closely, but it looked heavy, she thought, and fairly cumbersome.
                 The
pages she had picked up in Isabelle’s room were in Lacey’s briefcase now.
Isabelle had made her swear to give them only to Heather’s father. She had
wanted her to show him something that was in them. But show him what? she wondered. And shouldn’t she tell the police about them?
                 “Lacey,
drink some coffee. You need it.”
                 Rick
was crouching beside her, holding a steaming cup out to her. He had already
explained to the detectives that he had no reason to question a phone call from
a man claiming to be an attorney with Keller, Roland, and Smythe, an attorney
transferring to New York from Texas. “We do a lot of business with the firm,”
Rick had explained. “I saw no reason to call and confirm.”
                 “And
you’re sure this Caldwell guy is the one you saw running out of here, Ms.
Farrell?”
                 The
older of the two detectives was about fifty and heavyset. But he’s light on his
feet, Lacey thought, her mind wandering. He’s like that actor who was Dad’s
friend, the one who played the father in the revival of My Fair Lady. He sang
“Get Me to the Church on Time.” What was his name?
                 “Ms.
Farrell?” An edge of impatience had crept into the detective’s voice.
                 Lacey
looked back up at him. Detective Ed Sloane, that was this man’s name, she
thought. But she still couldn’t remember the name of the actor. What had Sloane
asked her? Oh, yes. Was Curtis Caldwell the man she’d seen running down the
stairs from Isabelle’s bedroom?
                 “I’m
absolutely sure it was the same man ,“ she said. “He
was carrying a pistol and the leather binder.”
                 Mentally
she gave herself a hard slap. She hadn’t meant to talk about the journal.