I'll Walk Alone - Mary Higgins Clark [86]
And there was a bunk bed and a table and chairs in that room that had been there when they moved in. Glory had told him that some other kids must have lived there because the table and chairs were just right for a kid his size to sit down and draw pictures.
Matthew loved to draw. Sometimes he would think about Mommy and draw a lady’s face on the paper. He never could get it to look just like her, but he always remembered her long hair and how it felt when it tickled his cheek, so he would always give the lady in his pictures long hair.
Sometimes he would take the bar of soap that smelled like Mommy from under the pillow and have it next to his hand on the table before he opened his box of crayons.
Maybe the next place they moved wouldn’t be as nice. He didn’t mind being locked in the big closet in this house when Glory left him alone. She always left the light on, and it was big enough for his trucks, and she always saved some new books for him to read until she got back.
Now Glory looked mad again. She said, “I wouldn’t put it past that old bag to make some excuse to come barging in here before Sunday. I’ve gotta remember to keep the bolt on the front door.”
Matthew didn’t know what to say. Glory wiped her face with the back of her hand. “Well, we just move up the schedule. I’ll let him know that tonight.” She walked over to the window. She always kept the shades down all the way and if she looked out, she did it by pushing the shade to one side.
She made a funny sound as if she couldn’t get her breath, then said, “That damn muffin jerk is driving by again. What’s she looking for?” Then she added, “You got her started, Matty. Go upstairs and stay in your room and make sure none of your trucks are ever downstairs again.”
Matthew went up to his room, sat down at the table, reached for his crayons, and began to cry.
55
Bartley Longe sat behind closed doors in his Park Avenue office, trying to talk himself into indignation at the rudeness of the detective who had, in effect, ordered him to put off any appointments he might have until they met.
But he could not conceal, even from himself, that he was frightened. Brittany’s father had kept his threat to go to the police. He couldn’t have them digging into his background again. That sexual harassment suit the receptionist had filed against him eight years ago hadn’t looked good in the newspapers.
The fact that he had been forced to settle for a lot of money had hurt him, financially and professionally. The receptionist had alleged that he’d become outraged when she rejected his advances and had slammed her against the wall, and that she had been in fear of her life. “His face had darkened with anger,” she had said to the cops. “He can’t stand rejection. I thought he would kill me.”
How was that going to sit with this cop when he does some digging into my background? Longe asked himself. Should I bring it up right away so that I seem straightforward? Brittany’s been missing nearly two years. The only way they’ll believe that I didn’t do something to her is if she turns up in Texas and visits her Daddy very, very soon.
Something else. Why hadn’t Kevin Wilson taken his call this morning? Surely he, or someone in his office, had seen Zan going into the station house with her lawyer. Surely Wilson had to be figuring that she’d probably be arrested, and if she was, how much time would she be able to put into his model apartments?
I need that job, Bartley Longe admitted. It’s a showcase for whoever gets it. Sure, I get enough business from the celebrities, but an awful lot of them drive a hard bargain. They say they’ll get a magazine to do a photo layout of their new homes, and that it would be free advertising for me. I don’t need that kind of free advertising.
I lost some of my big-money/old-money customers after that lousy publicity. If I’m involved in another scandal, I’ll lose more of them.
Why doesn’t Wilson call me back? In his letter when he asked me to bid for