I'll Be Watching You Part 37

She was getting antsy. He could see it in her movements, the restlessness in her step and in her eyes.

She hated living like a prisoner. Pretty soon, she'd shake herself free, if only for a little while.

A little while was enough. He'd be waiting.

Her time was running out. So let her screw Reed Weston to her heart's content. When she died, he'd be the one inside her, not Weston.

First he'd tell her everything. That was a given. He had to tell someone. His plan was too ingenious to keep to himself.

Pity he couldn't share it with the rest of the jacka.s.ses involved. Especially the cops. The looks on their faces would be priceless.

Unfortunately, it wasn't meant to be. He needed to move on, to begin his new life.

And, oh, what a life it would be.

CHAPTER 33.

MARCH 3.

3:30 P.M.

DELLINGER ACADEMY.

Taylor left school late.

She didn't have to glance across the street to know Mitch was there. She was acutely aware of his presence. Posting himself outside whatever building she was in was becoming second nature to the guy.

She turned up the collar of her coat and started walking.

All the stable components that made up her life were being yanked away, one by one.

Her first day back at school. It had been a carbon copy of her first day back at the radio station. Anxious glances from the faculty. Silence when she entered the teachers' lounge. An optimistic but uneasy pep talk from the headmaster. And odd looks, accompanied by whispered conversations, from the students.

It had been like rubbing salt in wounds that were already so raw they were bleeding. She shouldn't have been surprised. Dellinger was small and tight-knit. When something juicy went on, news traveled like wildfire, no matter how hard people tried to keep it quiet. Still, she'd pinned hope against hope that somehow the powers that be would have been able to sit on it, that she'd escape the fallout.

She hadn't.

It wasn't Mitch's fault that he'd lit the fuse by talking to the administration and a couple of faculty members. He'd just been doing his job.

But once he'd stepped through that first hallowed doorway, ears had gone up everywhere. And the rest had been a fait accompli.

Quickening her step, Taylor headed toward Starbucks. She desperately needed a few minutes alone.

Alone. That was a laugh. Mitch would be right behind her. He'd wait five minutes, then stroll in and order himself a grande Coffee of the Day to go. After that, he'd post himself outside, skimming the newspaper and drinking his coffee.

Talk about the ultimate chaperone.

Taylor opened the door and stepped inside. The place was warm, and smelled of coffee and scones.

It felt good.

She went up to the counter, ordered a grande decaf Americano. No caffeine for her. She was already twitching.

After she'd sat down at the counter near the window, her thoughts returned to the semi-pep, semi-prep talk she'd received from her headmaster. He'd been very kind. But he was worried, and she knew it.

He had good reason to be. Dellinger was an exclusive private school--one of the most selective in Manhattan. Once a majority of the parents were tipped off as to what was going on, they'd band together and put a ton of pressure on the board of directors. Taylor would become an "undesirable"--a danger to their precious offspring. Offspring that many of them barely noticed except at times like these, Taylor thought bitterly. Still, financial pressure was financial pressure, especially when it was exerted by powerful people. Unless Taylor's stalker was caught, and p.r.o.nto, she might be out of a job by the end of the school year.

She slammed down her empty cup. She was suffocating. She needed some air.

And by G.o.d, she was going to get it.

3:45 p.m.

STARBUCKS.

LEXINGTON AVENUE AT SEVENTY-EIGHTH STREET, NEW YORK CITY.

"Mitch, look. I don't want to argue with you." Having pulled Mitch aside as soon as he'd bought his coffee, Taylor was delivering her announcement with unyielding intensity. "I'm not asking to go jogging alone in Central Park. Actually, I'm not asking at all. I'm telling. And, not to be rude, I can do that. I'm paying your salary."

She paused to suck in a breath. "I'm stopping by my new apartment. I'm riding up in the elevator, letting myself in like a normal person, and checking out the place that one day soon, I'm going to call home. I'm seeing where the movers stacked my boxes, if they put my bed on the far wall of the bedroom near the window like I asked, if they were careful with my plants or dumped them all over the kitchen floor. Dammit, Mitch, I need to be regular person, a normal new tenant, if only for a half hour."

"Fine," he returned flatly. "I'll go up with you."

"No, you won't." She fought to keep her voice down. "Don't you understand? I met my new doorman once. His name's Ed. I want to meet Ed again, without a PI hovering around me."

"He'll think I'm your boyfriend."

"I don't want him to think you're my boyfriend. I don't want him to think you're my anything. I don't want to provide some fabricated explanation. I just want to be myself. Please, Mitch, don't give me a hard time. I'm at the end of my rope. I need a flicker of reprieve, a concrete glimpse of something real in my future. Thirty minutes. That's all it'll take. You can watch the building from across the street. No one's more of a pro at that than you."

Mitch shrugged. "Fine. Like you said, you're the boss. For the record, I'm not happy. I doubt Reed would be either."

"Duly noted. I'll call you the minute I set foot in the apartment and see that the coast is clear. If you don't hear from me five minutes after I go upstairs, you can summon the entire NYPD."

"Very cute. Let's just go and get this over with."

4:12 P.M.

WEST SEVENTY-FOURTH STREET, NEW YORK CITY.

Finally. Taylor Halstead, in the flesh.

He straightened, watching her approach the building.

Once again, he'd been right. He'd been dead sure she'd come by. So sure that he'd showed up a dozen times over the last three days. He'd really been pushing it. He couldn't be seen. And he couldn't answer questions about his absence.

But most important, he couldn't miss her. He had to seize his chance when it came.

Well, here it was. His tenacity had paid off, as always.

She stopped right in front of the building. So did her trusty PI, he noted with a smirk. A regular Kevin Costner. Well, Mr. Bodyguard was about to have a chance to prove how good he was.

Flipping open his cell phone, he prepped his digital voice recorder containing the sound clip he'd spliced together of her previous conversations.

Here goes, he thought. He punched in Jonathan's number.

4:14 P.M.

EAST EIGHTY-SIXTH STREET.

Jonathan reached for his ringing cell phone. "h.e.l.lo?"

"It's Taylor." Her voice was dulled by cell phone static. "I'm with Reed. We've got to see you immediately. Come to my new apartment. One twenty-three West Seventy-fourth Street. Hurry.

This could be it."

Click.

4:16 P.M.

WEST SEVENTY-FOURTH STREET.

Taylor turned the key and let herself into her new apartment.

The paint smell was strong, but it was in better shape than she'd expected. Oh, the parquet floors were piled high with boxes. But the furniture was in place, right down to her computer desk and PC, positioned in the living-room niche, as requested. The only item of significance still missing was a telephone. She'd remedy that soon enough.

She poked her head into the kitchen, the bedroom, and the bathroom. All devoid of intruders. She flipped on her cell phone and called Mitch. "Everything's fine," she reported. "I'm just getting acquainted with the place. I'll be down soon."

"Twenty-seven minutes," he reminded her.

"Yes, sir." She punched off the phone.

The rooms were s.p.a.cious and bright, just as she remembered. The bed was set up against the long wall by the window, precisely as she'd asked. The plants were intact, lined up on the windowsills for her to arrange as she pleased.

She smiled, strolling back into the living room and plopping down on the sofa. Strange surroundings mixed with familiar possessions. It already felt more comfortable than her old place.

Her gaze returned to the computer. It was dark and silent, since it wasn't plugged in. She kept a steady gaze on it, feeling somehow empowered by doing so. She'd celebrate her move by getting a new e-mail address. It was way past time. A different user name. A different Internet provider. But Gordon would not intimidate her, not any more than he already had.

She considered plugging in the computer and flipping on the power--a sort of symbolic gesture. No, she decided. She'd wait until she could unpack her surge protector.

Was she stalling? Maybe a little.

She wouldn't lie to herself. That computer still gave her the heebie-jeebies. She hadn't used it since New Year's Day, when the last e-card had come. Instead, she'd relied on her laptop. And, since she'd cut off her personal e-mail address, the only e-mail she received was what she accessed from Dellinger or WVNY.

That situation was going to change. Now that she knew Gordon was alive, she also knew her fears were irrational. If he wanted to terrorize her by e-mail, he would have rerouted his e-cards to one of her other electronic addresses.

Except that he was playing dead.

Taylor pressed her lips together. It didn't matter. She wasn't going to fear a machine, or anything it sent her. Fine, so she'd probably be checking her in-box constantly as she unpacked, praying there'd be no new e-cards waiting for her.

There couldn't be. Not unless Gordon wanted to expose his hand, let everyone know he was alive.

So whatever else he'd sent was floating in cybers.p.a.ce, never to reach her.

Not that he cared. He planned to reach her in person.

4:20 P.M.

WESTON & a.s.sOCIATES, ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW.

Reed paced around his office, mentally reviewing all the files, reports, and snippets of information he'd read through over the weekend. Mitch had given him copies of the articles he and Jake had dug up. Announce-ments of Gordon's successes. Significant investments he'd made on behalf of his clients--all of which paid off huge. Big splashy parties he'd attended, always with a redhead on his arm. The guy loved the limelight almost as much as he loved the high life.

G.o.ddammit, it didn't make sense. Gordon wanted revenge. Okay, fine, so he'd killed Adrienne and Douglas and gotten it. Whatever horrible thing he had planned for Taylor was still a question mark, but after that--then what? He'd want to start over, and not as a termite in the woodwork. His ego wouldn't allow it. So he obviously planned to flee the country. And live on what? He'd been on his own for half a year now. He must have blown most of his savings, no matter how much he'd stocked up from the churning he'd been involved in.

The guy was a hedonist and a megalomaniac. He'd plotted and carried out a whole elaborate scheme. There was no way that revenge was all he had in mind for himself. His ego was too huge, his lifestyle too extravagant. Something was missing.

Douglas's estate.

No matter how Reed cut it, he kept getting back to that. If Gordon could somehow get Jonathan convicted of homicide and get his hands on their father's a.s.sets . . . But how? It was a catch-22 for the b.a.s.t.a.r.d, any way Reed cut it. To claim his inheritance, Gordon would have to come forward and announce he was alive. At which point, he'd be arrested for a list of crimes so d.a.m.ning he'd never see the light of day again. Jonathan would become the sole beneficiary, and Gordon would fry.

So what was his angle?

Time to check out another long shot, Reed decided, walking over to his desk. He picked up the phone and punched in his old work number.

"Harter, Randolph and Collins," the receptionist answered.

"Mr. Randolph, please."

"Just a moment." The call was transferred.

Horace's secretary picked up. "Mr. Randolph's office."

"h.e.l.lo, Ms. Posner. This is Reed Weston. Is Mr. Randolph available? It's important."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Weston. Let me check." She put Reed on hold, returning a moment later.

"I'm transferring your call."

"Thanks."

Two rings later Horace Randolph picked up. "Reed. What can I do for you?"

Reed launched right in. "Horace, I know this entire situation is awkward. But I need confirmation of something concerning the Berkley estates, as it pertains to Jonathan's case. I won't impose upon your integrity any more than I have to. All I'm asking is for a slight clarification of what we've already discussed. I wouldn't ask at all if I hadn't been affiliated with the firm when Douglas's will was drawn up." A weighted pause. "And if I didn't feel the information might be crucial."

"Very well." Horace cleared his throat. "I'll do what I can. What is it you need to know?"

"Douglas's sister, the one who pa.s.sed away--it's her daughter who'd be next, and last, in line to inherit if Jonathan is found guilty."

"That's correct."