I'll Walk Alone - Mary Higgins Clark [33]
Neil shrugged. That was what he’d been about to tell Fr. Aiden, but it was clear Fr. Aiden didn’t want to hear it. None of my business anyhow, Neil decided. In his forty-one years, thanks to his drinking problem, Neil had run the gamut of jobs. The one he’d liked best was being a cop, but that had only lasted a few years. No matter how much you pleaded that you’d go on the wagon, getting drunk three times when you were on duty meant getting tossed out on your ear.
I had the makings of a good cop, Neil thought reflectively, as he headed for the utility closet. All the guys joked about me that I could see a mug shot once and pick the guy out of Times Square a year later. Wish I’d lasted in the department. Maybe by now I’d be the police commissioner!
But he hadn’t gone to AA then. Instead, after drifting from job to job, he’d ended up on the streets, begging for handouts and sleeping in shelters. Three years ago when he’d come here for food, one of the friars had sent him to the Inn at Graymoor where they had a rehab program for men like him, and there he’d finally kicked the booze.
Now, he liked working here. He liked staying sober. He liked the friends he’d made at the AA meetings. The friars called him their majordomo, a fancy way of saying handyman, but still, it had a certain dignity.
If Fr. Aiden did not want to talk about the Moreland woman, that’s the way it is, Neil decided. Mum’s the word. He probably wouldn’t care anyhow that I saw someone who looked just like her.
Why should he?
24
The elderly man who timidly entered the offices of Bartley Longe was clearly not a potential customer. His thinning white hair was straggly on his skull, his worn Dallas Cowboys jacket in need of replacing, his jeans hanging loose on his body, his feet clad in old sneakers. He made his way slowly to the reception desk. At the first sight of him, Phyllis, the receptionist, took him to be a messenger. Then she dismissed that possibility. The frailness of the man’s body and the sallow complexion of his wrinkled face suggested that he was, or had been, seriously ill.
She was glad that the boss was huddled in a meeting with Elaine, his secretary, and two fabric designers, and that his door was closed. Bartley Longe would have thought that whatever this man wanted, he didn’t belong in the rarefied atmosphere of these surroundings. Even after six years, kindhearted Phyllis cringed at the way Bartley treated any person with a shabby appearance. Like her pal Elaine, Phyllis stayed at the job for the pretty decent salary, and the fact that Bartley was out of the office often enough to give them all a break.
She smiled at the obviously nervous visitor. “How can I help you?
“My name is Toby Grissom. I’m sorry to bother you. It’s just that I haven’t heard from my daughter in six months and I can’t sleep at night because I’m so worried that maybe she’s in some kind of trou ble. She used to work here about two years ago. I thought someone in your office, maybe, might have heard from her.”
“She worked here?” Phyllis asked, as she mentally reviewed the list of employees who might have quit or been fired around two years ago. “What is her name?”
“Brittany La Monte. At least that’s her stage name. She came to New York twelve years ago. Like all kids she wanted to be an actress, and she did get a little part off-Broadway now and then.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Grissom, but I’ve been here six years, and I can absolutely tell you that no one named Brittany La Monte was working in this office two years ago.”
As though afraid of being dismissed out of hand, Grissom explained, “Well, not exactly worked for you here. What I mean is that she made her living as a makeup artist. Sometimes when there were cocktail parties to show off those model apartments Mr. Longe decorated, he asked Brittany to do the makeup for the models. Then he invited her to be one of the models. She’s a real pretty girl.”
“Oh, that could be why I never met her,” Phyllis said. “What I can