Sibs F Paul Wilson Page 4

  How Jill had loved Kelly, and Kelly, Jill. The two of them, separated by more than twenty years, would whisper and share secrets like two sisters, just as Kara and Kelly had when they were kids.

  So many memories. What relationship, what life-sharing could be more intimate than that of identical twins? Kelly and Kara Wade had dressed alike, braided their long blond hair alike, had even played the traditional tricks of pretending to be the other.

  She smiled as she remembered the time at the local county fair when they had driven one of the Little Miss Lancaster judges to distraction by taking turns showing up wherever he went. They shared the award that year.

  They had grown apart during these last years of separation, of living in different states, but on the occasions they got together, it was as if they had never been apart.

  Kara had always assumed she'd know instantly if something awful happened to Kelly. Wasn't there supposed to be a psychic link between identical twins? But Tuesday she had gone to bed early and had spent the night in a sound sleep. Kelly had plummeted through more than a hundred feet of cold air, screaming all the way, had had the life smashed out of her on the filthy pavement below without causing the slightest ripple in Kara's slumber.

  It didn't seem right.

  But then, nothing about this whole thing seemed right.

  Kara picked up the list of Kelly's personal effects that were being kept for evidence. She hadn't— couldn't—let Mom see this. The vial with half an ounce of cocaine was the hardest to accept, but the clothing described wasn't much easier.

  … one garter belt, black… two full length stockings, black… one pair silk panties, black, slit-crotch style… one bra, black, open cup style…

  Kara forced her bunched jaw muscles to relax. This could not be her sister they were talking about here. Slit-crotch panties? Bras cut so the nipples poked through? Kelly would never wear these things. She would have fallen on the floor laughing if anyone asked her to wear this garbage.

  This is not my sister!

  It was Kelly they had buried today, but who had Kelly become? Who had made her this way?

  Kara had to know. She knew she would not rest easy until she found out.

  And who had pushed Kelly through that window?

  Kara hoped that, whoever they were, they were sweating and worrying about being caught. And when Rob did catch them she hoped they got sent up for a long, long stretch during which they'd be buggered by every ferocious hood on Riker's Island.

  She hoped they were spending every moment of every day in sweaty, shaky, skin-crawling, heart-pounding panic.

  ▼

  "Phil? It's me—Ed."

  "Are you crazy calling me here now? Julie and Kim will be back from church any minute!"

  Ed Bannion cringed at the heat of his brother's anger. He could almost see Phil's clenched teeth, the splayed fingers of his raised hand.

  "I gotta talk to someone, Phil. I'm going crazy!"

  "Have you been drinking?"

  "I've had a few."

  "It's not even six o'clock, for Christ sake! What are you going to be like in a couple of hours?"

  "Asleep, if I'm lucky."

  "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

  Ed looked around his five-room Upper West Side apartment. It was empty, as usual, but never had felt so alone. He had hundreds of acquaintances, people he hung out with at night and on weekends, women he dated and occasionally slept with, men he had lunch with, played squash with. He couldn't turn to any one of them. He almost wished he'd stayed active in the Church. At least then he might be able to talk to a priest.

  But there was no one for him now except Phil. And Phil didn't want to talk about it.

  He sat at the kitchen table. Newspapers from Wednesday, the Times, Post, News, Newsday, USA Today, early and late editions, all arrayed before him. A beautiful blonde, clad only in garter belt and stockings, crashing through a window in the Plaza Hotel to end up dead on the street below—the tabloids had eaten it up, and even the Times had given the story considerable space. The tv news shows had reviewed the victim's life but reported that the police could come up with no answers. The victim's family refused to comment, and her tearful co-workers at St. Vincent's in Greenwich Village had nothing to say except how shocked they were.

  And that was it. By Thursday she wasn't even mentioned. Twenty-four hours after her dramatic death, the papers and tv news both had forgotten about Kelly Wade.

  But the police hadn't—Ed was sure of that.

  And neither had Ed Bannion.

  "I can't sleep, Phil. Every time I close my eyes I see her going through that window. I hear her—"

  "Knock it off, will you? I never knew you were such a goddam wimp!"

  Images flashed before Ed's eyes—the two of them, panicked, shaking, stumbling half-dressed out into the hallway, adjusting their clothing in the stairwell, hurrying down a random number of flights and then waiting for the elevator on another floor, taking it down to the lobby and then strolling out as casually as they could amid the uproar over the "jumper" who had landed on the pavement only moments before.

  It would have been funny, a scene out of a Hollywood comedy, something to laugh about later… if only it hadn't ended so horribly.

  "Doesn't it bother you at all?"

  Phil's voice softened. "Yeah, it bothers me. It was a hell of a thing. But we're not to blame, Ed. We didn't do anything to that Ingrid—"

  "Kelly. The papers say her real name was Kelly Wade."

  "Whatever. The fact remains that she went out that window on her own. Nothing we did in that room had anything to do with her taking that leap."

  "I know, but—"

  "But nothing!" The anger was back in Phil's voice. "What really bothers me is that I might get hauled in for questioning and have my marriage and career and reputation ruined because my brother can't stop whining about a whore with a snootful of coke who threw herself out a window!"

  "You didn't see her face, Phil."

  "Of course, I did!"

  "Not right before she went out the window. It was—"

  "Gotta go, Ed. Julie and Kim are back. Just hang in there and keep your shit together and don't do anything stupid, okay? I'll call you tomorrow."

  "Phil—?"

  The line was dead.

  Ed hung up and reached for the vodka bottle. He poured some more over the ice in his glass. Absolut Citron. He'd never been more than a beer or wine drinker but he'd heard that the best way to get drunk without getting sick was with vodka. The slight lemony flavor of this one made it easier to swallow.

  He sipped, grimacing as it went down.

  But not that much easier.

  He walked through the great room of his spacious condo, past the entertainment center with the stereo and giant screen tv, past the leather furniture groups. He didn't want to hear anything or watch anything, and he couldn't sit still. He stood at the picture window and looked down on Sheridan Square. How he'd reveled in owning this chic, expensive pied a terre in the Coronado, the corner of Broadway and 70th, in the heart of yuppidom. Tonight it left him cold.

  "You didn't see her face, Phil," he said aloud as he watched the traffic below. "You didn't see her face."

  If only he could forget how she'd looked as her head swung back and forth, staring in turn at him and his brother in those silent seconds before she ran blindly for the window; if only he could get her last expression out of his mind, maybe then he could sleep. He had only seen her face for a few seconds then, but it had differed so from the woman who had accosted them down in the bar. The face that had hovered over him for that instant had been shocked, repulsed, anguished, tortured… lost. But worst of all, utterly hopeless.

  Why? Why, damn it!

  The question clung to him like a whining child, following him from room to room. And it led to other questions.

  Who was this woman who had called herself Ingrid but was really named Kelly who had turned in a matter of seconds from a male fa
ntasy sex kitten to a frightened doe? Who or what had made her that way? Why had she jumped?

  And most importantly: Was Ed in any way responsible?

  He wouldn't sleep until he knew.

  Which was why he had spent most of the past four days trying to track down Kelly Wade, R.N. He had called in sick on Wednesday—and truly he had been sick the whole day after the incident—and had extended his illness through the rest of the week, spending his time calling the increasingly short-tempered Phil and trying to learn more about the dead woman. He had used a number of ruses, calling the personnel office at her hospital in various guises, trying to learn more about her. All he had managed to glean from them was that she had lived in the East Sixties and that the funeral was scheduled for Saturday in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. The police had been even less helpful.

  He had found a Wade K in the Manhattan directory, listed at 335 East 63rd. He had called the number at least forty times now and there was still no answer. That had to be her place.

  When he got the chance, he was going to go over there and take a look around. Nothing overt, nothing conspicuous, just get the lay of the land and see if maybe he could learn something about her.

  Yes, he realized it was an absurdly stupid and risky thing to do, and he knew Phil would probably strangle him if he learned what he planned, but he had to do this. He had to learn something about this woman, something—he was almost ashamed to be thinking this—bad. All he wanted was for someone to let him know, just hint, that Kelly Wade had a long history of being a flake and a floozy and everybody had known that she was bound to come to a bad end someday.

  That might not help him sleep at night. It might not make him forget that last look she had on her face, but it was a start.

  And it didn't have to be all that risky. Not if he concocted a neat little story to explain his interest in Kelly Wade should anyone ask.

  Ed leaned back in the chair and began inventing.

  February 8

  10:20 A.M.

  Rob Harris lit a cigarette and stared out at the Sunday morning sky. With his head propped up against the headboard he lay stretched out in his bed, thinking about where he'd been the past few years and where he might be headed—and not too crazy about either.

  He looked around at the faded wallpaper which had been here since he'd moved all his second-hand furniture from his old west side digs after Tony had gone and got himself married. To the best of his knowledge, this was the first time he had looked—really looked—at the room.

  Who lives here? he wondered.

  There wasn't a picture on the walls, not a photo on the dresser. A motel room had more personality.

  Where have I been?

  He'd been to work and back, and that was about it. He'd put so much into the Job that he hadn't left much of a mark anywhere else. The only thing he had changed here was the kitchen, and that had been minimal, making space for some of the specialized utensils he'd picked up over the years. But the rest of the apartment? He'd seen flop houses with more character.

  Marking time, that was what he seemed to be doing. Why? Waiting for what? For Kara to come back?

  He flung that thought away. Ludicrous. He hadn't been saving himself for Kara. There'd been plenty of women since Kara. He glanced at the sleeping form beside him. Like Connie, for instance.

  But it occurred to him that Kara had done a hell of a lot more than he with their ten years apart. She'd been married, had a child, graduated from college, and had a book in the works. Rob had had the job when she'd left, and he still had the job. Nothing more. He felt… jealous.

  The thought of Kara brought Kelly to mind, and with her came the thought that he should have gone to the funeral yesterday. Even though Kara had let him know in no uncertain terms that he wasn't needed there in rural, Pennsylvania, and it might have been uncomfortable, he still felt he should have shown up. He'd had little or no contact with Kelly since her sister had dropped him ten years ago, but he felt he owed it to her to stand by her grave and say a prayer.

  "What a jerk," he said aloud.

  Next to him in the bed, Connie mumbled and turned onto her back. The movement exposed her right breast, pink and ample. Rob watched the dark nipple rise in the cool air of the bedroom. Connie squirmed, then pulled the covers up to her neck.

  Rob leaned back with his hands behind his head and continued his rumination on being a jerk. Mostly it had to do with loyalty. He couldn't get past this feeling that he had some sort of obligation to be there for everyone he knew or with whom he'd ever had a potential relationship. Like Kelly Wade.

  Jerk. Why was he lying here thinking about her on a Sunday morning? Did she come around to help him over the rough days and weeks and months he'd had after Kara left him? No. Oh, they'd had lunch together a couple of times and she'd tried to explain Kara's refusal to return his calls or letters, but in general she'd avoided him, going about her business without worrying too much about Rob Harris. So why did he feel he should be at her funeral ten years later?

  Because you're a cop and she died in your city.

  Bull. It wasn't his city. He didn't run it. And he hadn't dressed her up like a hooker and sent her trolling through the Oak Bar.

  Still, Kelly had been a good kid. She had died a scarlet woman, but Rob would always remember her as the sweet young thing of ten years ago. He smiled. Kara and Kelly Wade, the two beautiful hicks looking like they'd just stepped out of a Doublemint ad. He remembered his first glimpse of her that night at McSorley's, and how the Wade twins, with their shapely, well-turned little bodies, pale blonde hair, blue eyes, scrubbed faces, and dazzling smiles had won over that all-male hangout before they'd departed.

  You couldn't not like them. They even had a little routine: "I'm Kara, the Kelly Girl."

  "And I'm Kelly, Kara's sister." Corny and ridiculous from anyone else, but it had blown Rob away.

  And although it was almost impossible to tell them apart except for their make up—Kelly always wore more—Rob found himself immediately drawn to Kara. Something about Kara…

  Kara.

  She'd turned out to be nothing but trouble for him. Why was he thinking about Kara when there was a shapely, passionate woman curled up against him in his bed?

  Maybe because when he and Kara had been good together, it was magic. There had never been anything else quite like it for him, before or since.

  But why torture himself about it? For all the passion and intimacy and ecstasy they'd shared, there had been large counterbalancing doses of anger and shouting and pain. And when she finally called it quits, she really called it quits—completely severing herself from him, from the city, and everyone she had known here. No calls, no letters not a word. Kelly had assured him that Kara was alive and well in Elderun but that she most definitely did not want to see him any more. He hadn't believed that. He'd traveled out through Amish country, groping through the area around a place called Bird In Hand until he'd finally found the Wade family farm and pounded on the door. Her mother had let him in but Kara had refused to come downstairs. He had stubbornly waited for hours in the warm but pitying presence of Mrs. Wade, but Kara wouldn't even show her face.

  That was when it finally got through his thick Irish skull that she really and truly wanted no part of him.

  That had hurt him like never before. As if the heart had been ripped out of him, leaving him with an empty hole where it had been.

  Rob stretched. But that was all in the past now. Time heals all wounds. Or so they said.

  Kara certainly hadn't needed much time to heal. She'd bounced back and married Mr. Right. He might be dead now, but at least she'd found him.

  When's my turn? he thought. When would he find Mrs. Right, if there was such a person? Or had he already found her and let her slip away? Or was the job going to turn out to be Mrs. Right, like it had for so many cops he knew?

  He wondered how many chances you got.

  He still loved the job, but it wasn't quite the same anymore. It had
been getting to him lately. The human misery he saw on a daily basis seemed to be deeper, more soul-wrenching; the scum he had to deal with seemed scummier. Was the city changing for the worse, or was it him?

  That little restaurant he and Kara had dreamed of opening was looking better and better. Even though Kara wouldn't be with him, he still wanted to give it a try. He'd put in his twenty years, then use his pension as a back-up while he made the restaurant a going thing. He just had to hold out until—

  He felt a hand slide up the inside of his thigh. He looked at Connie. She was awake and staring at him with her curly brown eyes. Her long dark hair flowed over her cheek and throat.

  "An option on your thoughts," she said.

  "Nothing. A blank."

  "Come on. Your face reminded me of the first time I made you try sushi."

  "Okay. I was thinking about a murder that maybe wasn't a murder and how I'm probably never going to know."

  "Hey, it's Sunday. You're not suppose to be thinking about work. You're supposed to be thinking about me."

  As if to emphasize that point, she ran her hand further up his thigh and began caressing him. Rob felt a faint tingle of pleasure but little more. His usual quick response wasn't there this morning.

  "Not in the mood, huh?" Connie said after a couple of minutes.

  "Not really."

  "I hate it when you get so wrapped up in a case. You're good for nothing else when that happens."