“We need the one that’s easiest to get into. One without cameras, or a doorman. I have people who can do this. They’ll be dressed as movers.”
Howard forces himself to concentrate. “Bridget’s apartment, the one she had before she met Morris. Off Columbus. No doorman, and I remember her saying the surveillance cameras were for show. They’re not hooked up to anything. She hung on to the place for when friends came into town. The key should still be on her ring.”
“Address.”
Howard gives it to him.
“Okay,” Lewis says. “I know how we can do this. I have her phone. You’ll get a call within the hour. From Bridget’s phone. You’ll take this call in front of Agatha. When you answer it, you’ll pretend to talk to her.”
“I’m not an idiot, Lewis.”
“Howard, just let me work this out. You take the call, you ask her what’s wrong, she’s upset. Then she’s going to hang up, and when Agatha asks what’s going on, you say, ‘Bridget said, “Howard, I’m so sorry, but he’s sucking the life out of me. I can’t take it anymore.”’ Does that work for you?”
“Yes.”
“Then call Morris. Tell him you’re worried about Bridget. You got this strange call from her.”
“I’ve got it.” Howard’s thinking of loose ends. “A note,” he says.
“Way ahead of you,” Lewis says. “Found a sample of her handwriting in her purse. Piece of cake. Done it before.”
There are things Howard still does not know about Lewis. But as angry as he is, he’s also grateful at this moment for his skills.
“Go,” Howard says.
Lewis ends the call.
Howard takes a moment to attempt to decompress. He places his palms on the desk, leans back in the chair, closes his eyes, hoping he can go to that place where he can just catch his breath, but that place is a hundred thousand miles away.
Dear God.
Agatha, he suddenly remembers, is planning to go out to lunch with friends. He needs her here. She’s his witness.
“Agatha,” he says, walking out to her desk, making sure he has his cell with him, “I need you to pull together all the polling numbers we’ve done on Morris in the last six months.”
“All those reports are in the computer,” she says. “I can show you.”
“I know, but what I want you to do is summarize the lot of them into a one-page memo for me. A hard copy.”
“I’ll get to that right after lunch,” Agatha says.
“I need it now. As soon as you can get it to me.”
Agatha glances at the time in the corner of her computer screen. “Of course, Howard. I’ll get right on it. I’ll just—I’m just going to have to make a call and reschedule something.”
“Thanks, that’s great.”
His cell rings and it’s as though a grenade has gone off in his Armani suit jacket. He attempts to disguise his alarm, takes out the phone and puts it to his ear without looking to see who it is.
“Howard here.”
He is waiting to hear nothing. He is getting ready to say something like, Bridget? Are you okay? What’s wrong?
Morris says, “Hey, we still a go for tonight?”
“Morris. Hello.”
“Did you forget?”
“No, of course not. We have to talk.”
“The Times hasn’t been able to advance the story, but they’ve got to be trying.”
“Agreed.” He pauses. “Will Bridget be joining us?”
“No. This whole thing, it’s making her so anxious, the last thing she wants is to hear about it through dinner.”
“She’s not the only one,” Howard says.
“I still think it was the right call,” Morris says. “If I had to make the same decision again, I’d do it. And if it comes out, that’s what I’ll say. See you tonight.”
Howard slips the phone into his jacket and looks at Agatha, who is printing something off her screen. “I’m sorry. You had a lunch planned, didn’t you?”
“It’s okay,” she says.
He returns to his office but leaves the door open. Tries to look busy, in case Agatha walks in. But it is impossible to focus on anything. He is waiting for the call. And thinking about how this could have happened.
He should have told Bridget to stay away from that Fitch woman. He hadn’t thought it necessary. Not for a minute did Howard think she was going to connect with her again.
That she would go to Fitch’s apartment. At the same time as—
His cell rings.
Howard grabs the phone, looks at the call display: BRIDGET.
“Hello?” he says, getting up from behind his desk, strolling out past Agatha’s desk. She is stapling some papers together.
“Bridget, Bridget, what’s wrong?” he says, standing by Agatha’s desk. She senses something is amiss and stops what she’s doing.
“Bridget, are you okay?” he says. Pauses. “Where are you? Tell me where you are.”
Agatha’s expression becomes increasingly concerned. Howard exchanges a worried glance with her.
“Bridget?” He takes the phone from his ear and says, “She hung up.”
“What’s wrong?” Agatha asks.
“She wasn’t making any sense. She said she was sorry, and then something about how Morris was sucking the life out of her, and she couldn’t take it anymore.”