Kitabı oku: «If Tomorrow Comes», sayfa 2
A distant male voice asked, ‘Tracy Whitney?’
She hesitated. If this was an obscene phone call… ‘Who is this?’
‘This is Lieutenant Miller of the New Orleans Police Department. Is this Tracy Whitney?’
‘Yes.’ Her heart began to pound.
‘I’m afraid I have bad news for you.’
Her hand clenched around the phone.
‘It’s about your mother.’
‘Has – has Mother been in some kind of accident?’
‘She’s dead, Miss Whitney.’
‘No!’ It was a scream. This was an obscene phone call. Some crank trying to frighten her. There was nothing wrong with her mother. Her mother was alive. I love you very, very much, Tracy.
‘I hate to break it to you this way,’ the voice said.
It was real. It was a nightmare, but it was happening. She could not speak. Her mind and her tongue were frozen.
The lieutenant’s voice was saying, ‘Hello …? Miss Whitney? Hello …?’
‘I’ll be on the first plane.’
She sat in the tiny kitchen of her flat thinking about her mother. It was impossible that she was dead. She had always been so vibrant, so alive. They had had such a close and loving relationship. From the time Tracy was a small girl, she had been able to go to her mother with her problems, to discuss school and boys and, later, men. When Tracy’s father had died, many overtures had been made by people who wanted to buy the business. They had offered Doris Whitney enough money so that she could have lived well for the rest of her life, but she had stubbornly refused to sell. ‘Your father built up this business. I can’t throw away all his hard work.’ And she had kept the business flourishing.
Oh, Mother, Tracy thought. I love you so much. You’ll never meet Charles, and you’ll never see your grandchildren, and she began to weep.
She made a cup of coffee and let it grow cold while she sat in the dark. Tracy wanted desperately to call Charles and tell him what had happened, to have him at her side. She looked at the kitchen clock. It was 3:30 A.M. She did not want to awaken him; she would telephone him from New Orleans. She wondered whether this would affect their wedding plans, and instantly felt guilty at the thought. How could she even think of herself at a time like this? Lieutenant Miller had said, ‘When you get here, grab a taxi and come to police headquarters.’ Why police headquarters? Why? What had happened?
Standing in the crowded New Orleans airport waiting for her suitcase, surrounded by pushing, impatient travellers, Tracy felt suffocated. She tried to move close to the baggage carousel, but no one would let her through. She was becoming increasingly nervous, dreading what she would have to face in a little while. She kept trying to tell herself that it was all some kind of mistake, but the words kept reverberating in her head: I’m afraid I have bad news for you … She’s dead, Miss Whitney … I hate to break it to you this way …
When Tracy finally retrieved her suitcase, she got into a taxi and repeated the address the lieutenant had given her: ‘Seven fifteen South Broad Street, please.’
The driver grinned at her in the rearview mirror. ‘Fuzzville, huh?’
No conversation. Not now. Tracy’s mind was too filled with turmoil.
The taxi headed east towards the Lake Ponchartrain Causeway. The driver chattered on. ‘Come here for the big show, miss?’
She had no idea what he was talking about, but she thought, No. I came here for death. She was aware of the drone of the driver’s voice, but she did not hear the words. She sat stiffly in her seat, oblivious to the familiar surroundings that sped past. It was only as they approached the French Quarter that Tracy became conscious of the growing noise. It was the sound of a mob gone mad, rioters yelling some ancient berserk litany.
‘Far as I can take you,’ the driver informed her.
And then Tracy looked up and saw it. It was an incredible sight. There were hundreds of thousands of shouting people, wearing masks, disguised as dragons and giant alligators and pagan gods, filling the streets and pavements ahead with a wild cacophony of sound. It was an insane explosion of bodies and music and floats and dancing.
‘Better get out before they turn my cab over,’ the driver said. ‘Damned Mardi Gras.’
Of course. It was February, the time when the whole city celebrated the beginning of Lent. Tracy got out of the cab and stood at the curb, suitcase in hand, and the next moment she was swept up in the screaming, dancing crowd. It was obscene, a black witches’ sabbath, a million Furies celebrating the death of her mother. Tracy’s suitcase was torn from her hand and disappeared. She was grabbed by a fat man in a devil’s mask and kissed. A deer squeezed her breasts, and a giant panda grabbed her from behind and lifted her up. She struggled free and tried to run, but it was impossible. She was hemmed in, trapped, a part of the singing, dancing celebration. She moved with the chanting mob, tears streaming down her face. There was no escape. When she was finally able to break away and flee to a quiet street, she was near hysteria. She stood still for a long time, leaning against a lamp-post, taking deep breaths, slowly regaining control of herself. She headed for the police station.
Lieutenant Miller was a middle-aged, harassed-looking man with a weather-beaten face, who seemed genuinely uncomfortable in his role. ‘Sorry I couldn’t meet you at the airport,’ he told Tracy, ‘but the whole town’s gone nuts. We went through your mother’s things, and you’re the only one we could find to call.’
‘Please, Lieutenant, tell me what – what happened to my mother.’
‘She committed suicide.’
A cold chill went through her. ‘That’s – that’s impossible! Why would she kill herself? She had everything to live for.’ Her voice was ragged.
‘She left a note addressed to you.’
The morgue was cold and indifferent and terrifying. Tracy was led down a long white corridor into a large, sterile, empty room, and suddenly she realized that the room was not empty. It was filled with the dead. Her dead.
A white-coated attendant strolled over to a wall, reached for a handle, and pulled out an oversized drawer. ‘Wanna take a look?’
No! I don’t want to see the empty, lifeless body lying in that box. She wanted to get out of this place. She wanted to go back a few hours in time when the fire bell was ringing. Let it be a real fire alarm, not the telephone, not my mother dead. Tracy moved forward slowly, each step a screaming inside her. Then she was staring down at the lifeless remains of the body that had borne her, nourished her, laughed with her, loved her. She bent over and kissed her mother on the cheek. The cheek was cold and rubbery. ‘Oh, Mother,’ Tracy whispered. ‘Why? Why did you do it?’
‘We gotta perform an autopsy,’ the attendant was saying. ‘It’s the state law with suicides.’
The note Doris Whitney left offered no answer.
My darling Tracy,
Please forgive me. I failed, and I couldn’t stand being a burden on you. This is the best way. I love you so much.
Mother
The note was as lifeless and devoid of meaning as the body that lay in the drawer.
That afternoon Tracy made the funeral arrangements, then took a taxi to the family home. In the far distance she could hear the roar of the Mardi Gras revellers, like some alien, lurid celebration.
The Whitney residence was a Victorian house located in the Garden District in the residential section known as Uptown. Like most of the homes in New Orleans, it was built of wood and had no basement, for the area was situated below sea level.
Tracy had grown up in that house, and it was filled with warm, comfortable memories. She had not been home in the past year, and as her taxi slowed to a stop in front of the house, she was shocked to see a large sign on the lawn: FOR SALE – NEW ORLEANS REALTY COMPANY. It was impossible. I’ll never sell this old house, her mother had often told her. We’ve all been so happy together here.
Filled with a strange, unreasoning fire, Tracy moved past a giant magnolia tree towards the front door. She had been given her own key to the house when she was in the seventh grade and had carried it with her since, as a talisman, a reminder of the haven that would always be there waiting for her.
She opened the door and stepped inside. She stood there, stunned. The rooms were completely empty, stripped of furniture. All the beautiful antique pieces were gone. The house was like a barren shell deserted by the people who had once occupied it. Tracy ran from room to room, her disbelief growing. It was as though some sudden disaster had struck. She hurried upstairs and stood in the doorway of the bedroom she had occupied most of her life. It stared back at her, cold and empty. Oh, God, what could have happened? Tracy heard the sound of the front doorbell and walked as if in a trance down the stairs to answer it.
Otto Schmidt stood in the doorway. The foreman of the Whitney Automotive Parts Company was an elderly man with a seamed face and a body that was rail-thin, except for a protruding beer belly. A tonsure of straggly grey hair framed his scalp.
‘Tracy,’ he said in a heavy German accent, ‘I just heard the news. I – I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’
Tracy clasped his hands. ‘Oh, Otto. I’m so glad to see you. Come in.’ She led him into the empty living room. ‘I’m sorry there’s no place to sit down,’ she apologized. ‘Do you mind sitting on the floor?’
‘No, no.’
They sat down across from each other, their eyes dumb with misery. Otto Schmidt had been an employee of the company for as long as Tracy could remember. She knew how much her father had depended on him. When her mother had inherited the business, Schmidt had stayed on to run it for her. ‘Otto, I don’t understand what’s happening. The police say Mother committed suicide, but you know there was no reason for her to kill herself.’ A sudden thought stabbed at her. ‘She wasn’t ill, was she? She didn’t have some terrible –’
‘No. It wasn’t that. Not that.’ He looked away, uncomfortable, something unspoken in his words.
Tracy said slowly, ‘You know what it was.’
He peered at her through rheumy blue eyes. ‘Your mama didn’t tell you what’s been happening lately. She didn’t want to worry you.’
Tracy frowned. ‘Worry me about what? Go on … please.’
His work-worn hands opened and closed. ‘Have you heard of a man called Joe Romano?’
‘Joe Romano? No. Why?’
Otto Schmidt blinked. ‘Six months ago Romano got in touch with your mother and said he wanted to buy the company. She told him she wasn’t interested in selling, but he offered her ten times what the company was worth, and she couldn’t refuse. She was so excited. She was going to invest all the money in bonds that would bring in an income that both of you could live on comfortably for the rest of your lives. She was going to surprise you. I was so glad for her. I’ve been ready to retire for the last three years, Tracy, but I couldn’t leave Mrs Doris, could I? This Romano –’ Otto almost spat out the word. ‘This Romano gave her a small down payment. The big money – the balloon payment – was to have come last month.’
Tracy said impatiently, ‘Go on, Otto. What happened?’
‘When Romano took over, he fired everybody and brought in his own people to run things. Then he began to raid the company. He sold all the assets and ordered a lot of equipment, selling it off but not paying for it. The suppliers weren’t worried about the delay in payment because they thought they were still dealing with your mother. When they finally began pressing your mother for their money, she went to Romano and demanded to know what was going on. He told her he had decided not to go ahead with the deal and was returning the company to her. By then, the company was not only worthless but your mother owed half a million dollars she couldn’t pay. Tracy, it nearly killed me and the wife to watch how your mother fought to save that company. There was no way. They forced her into bankruptcy. They took everything – the business, this house, even her car.’
‘Oh, my God!’
‘There’s more. The district attorney served your mother notice that he was going to ask for an indictment against her for fraud, that she was facing a prison sentence. That was the day she really died, I think.’
Tracy was seething with a wave of helpless anger. ‘But all she had to do was tell them the truth – explain what that man did to her.’
The old foreman shook his head. ‘Joe Romano works for a man named Anthony Orsatti. Orsatti runs New Orleans. I found out too late that Romano’s done this before with other companies. Even if your mother had taken him to court, it would have been years before it was all untangled, and she didn’t have the money to fight him.’
‘Why didn’t she tell me?’ It was a cry of anguish, a cry for her mother’s anguish.
‘Your mother was a proud woman. And what could you do? There’s nothing anyone can do.’
You’re wrong, Tracy thought fiercely. ‘I want to see Joe Romano. Where can I find him?’
Schmidt said flatly, ‘Forget about him. You have no idea how powerful he is.’
‘Where does he live, Otto?’
‘He has an estate near Jackson Square, but it won’t help to go there, Tracy, believe me.’
Tracy did not answer. She was filled with an emotion totally unfamiliar to her: hatred. Joe Romano is going to pay for killing my mother, Tracy swore to herself.
Chapter Three
She needed time. Time to think, time to plan her next move. She could not bear to go back to the despoiled house, so she checked into a small hotel on Magazine Street, far from the French Quarter, where the mad parades were still going on. She had no luggage, and the suspicious clerk behind the desk said, ‘You’ll have to pay in advance. That’ll be forty dollars for the night.’
From her room Tracy telephoned Clarence Desmond to tell him she would be unable to come to work for a few days.
He concealed his irritation at being inconvenienced. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he told Tracy. ‘I’ll find someone to fill in until you return.’ He hoped she would remember to tell Charles Stanhope how understanding he had been.
Tracy’s next call was to Charles. ‘Charles, darling –’
‘Where the devil are you, Tracy? Mother has been trying to reach you all morning. She wanted to have lunch with you today. You two have a lot of arrangements to go over.’
‘I’m sorry, darling. I’m in New Orleans.’
‘You’re where? What are you doing in New Orleans?’
‘My mother – died.’ The word stuck in her throat.
‘Oh.’ The tone of his voice changed instantly. ‘I’m sorry, Tracy. It must have been very sudden. She was quite young, wasn’t she?’
She was very young, Tracy thought miserably. Aloud she said, ‘Yes. Yes, she was.’
‘What happened? Are you all right?’
Somehow Tracy could not bring herself to tell Charles that it was suicide. She wanted desperately to cry out the whole terrible story about what they had done to her mother, but she stopped herself. It’s my problem, she thought. I can’t throw my burden on Charles. She said, ‘Don’t worry. I’m all right, darling.’
‘Would you like me to come down there, Tracy?’
‘No. Thank you. I can handle it. I’m burying Mama tomorrow. I’ll be back in Philadelphia on Monday.’
When she hung up, she lay on the hotel bed, her thoughts unfocused. She counted stained acoustical tiles on the ceiling. One … two … three … Romano … four … five … Joe Romano … six … seven … he was going to pay. She had no plan. She knew only that she was not going to let Joe Romano get away with what he had done, that she would find some way to avenge her mother.
Tracy left her hotel in the late afternoon and walked along Canal Street until she came to a pawn shop. A cadaverous-looking man wearing an old-fashioned green eyeshade sat in a cage behind a counter.
‘Help you?’
‘I – I want to buy a gun.’
‘What kind of gun?’
‘You know … a … revolver.’
‘You want a thirty-two, a forty-five, a –’
Tracy had never even held a gun. ‘A – a thirty-two will do.’
‘I have a nice thirty-two calibre Smith and Wesson here for two hundred and twenty-nine dollars, or a Charter Arms thirty-two for a hundred and fifty-nine …’
She had not brought much cash with her. ‘Have you got something cheaper?’
He shrugged. ‘Cheaper is a slingshot, lady. Tell you what. I’ll let you have the thirty-two for a hundred and fifty, and I’ll throw in a box of bullets.’
‘All right.’ Tracy watched as he moved over to an arsenal on a table behind him and selected a revolver. He brought it to the counter. ‘You know how to use it?’
‘You – you pull the trigger.’
He grunted. ‘Do you want me to show you how to load it?’
She started to say no, that she was not going to use it, that she just wanted to frighten someone, but she realized how foolish that would sound. ‘Yes, please.’
Tracy watched as he inserted the bullets into the chamber. ‘Thank you.’ She reached in her purse and counted out the money.
‘I’ll need your name and address for the police records.’
That had not occurred to Tracy. Threatening Joe Romano with a gun was a criminal act. But he’s the criminal, not I.
The green eyeshade made the man’s eyes a pale yellow as he watched her. ‘Name?’
‘Smith. Joan Smith.’
He made a note on a card. ‘Address?’
‘Dowman Road. Thirty-twenty Dowman Road.’
Without looking up he said, ‘There is no Thirty-twenty Dowman Road. That would be in the middle of the river. We’ll make it Fifty-twenty.’ He pushed the receipt in front of her.
She signed JOAN SMITH. ‘Is that it?’
‘That’s it.’ He carefully pushed the revolver through the cage. Tracy stared at it, then picked it up, put it in her handbag, turned and hurried out of the shop.
‘Hey, lady,’ he yelled after her. ‘Don’t forget that gun is loaded!’
Jackson Square is in the heart of the French Quarter, with the beautiful St Louis Cathedral towering over it like a benediction. Lovely old homes and estates in the square are sheltered from the bustling street traffic by tall hedges and graceful magnolia trees. Joe Romano lived in one of those houses.
Tracy waited until dark before she set out. The parades had moved on to Chartres Street, and in the distance Tracy could hear an echo of the pandemonium she had been swept up in earlier.
She stood in the shadows, studying the house, conscious of the heavy weight of the gun in her handbag. The plan she had worked out was simple. She was going to reason with Joe Romano, ask him to clear her mother’s name. If he refused, she would threaten him with the gun and force him to write out a confession. She would take it to Lieutenant Miller, and he would arrest Romano, and her mother’s name would be protected. She wished desperately that Charles were there with her, but it was best to do it alone. Charles had to be left out of it. She would tell him about it when it was all over and Joe Romano was behind bars, where he belonged. A pedestrian was approaching. Tracy waited until he had walked past and the street was deserted.
She walked up to the house and pressed the doorbell. There was no answer. He’s probably at one of the private krewes balls given during Mardi Gras. But I can wait, Tracy thought. I can wait until he gets home. Suddenly, the porch light snapped on, the front door opened, and a man stood in the doorway. His appearance was a surprise to Tracy. She had visualized a sinister-looking mobster, evil written all over his face. Instead, she found herself facing an attractive, pleasant-looking man who could easily have been mistaken for a university professor. His voice was low and friendly. ‘Hello. May I help you?’
‘Are you Joseph Romano?’ Her voice was shaky.
‘Yes. What can I do for you?’ He had an easy, engaging manner. No wonder my mother was taken in by this man, Tracy thought.
‘I – I’d like to talk to you, Mr Romano.’
He studied her figure for a moment. ‘Certainly. Please come in.’
Tracy walked into a living room filled with beautiful, burnished antique furniture. Joseph Romano lived well. On my mother’s money, Tracy thought bitterly.
‘I was just about to mix myself a drink. What would you like?’
‘Nothing.’
He looked at her curiously. ‘What was it you wanted to see me about, Miss –?’
‘Tracy Whitney. I’m Doris Whitney’s daughter.’
He stared at her blankly for an instant, and then a look of recognition flashed across his face. ‘Oh, yes. I heard about your mother. Too bad.’
Too bad! He had caused the death of her mother, and his only comment was: ‘Too bad’.
‘Mr Romano, the district attorney believes that my mother was guilty of fraud. You know that’s not true. I want you to help me clear her name.’
He shrugged. ‘I never talk business during Mardi Gras. It’s against my religion.’ Romano walked over to the bar and began mixing drinks. ‘I think you’ll feel better after you’ve had a drink.’
He was leaving her no choice. Tracy opened her handbag and pulled out the revolver. She pointed it at him. ‘I’ll tell you what will make me feel better, Mr Romano. Having you confess to exactly what you did to my mother.’
Joseph Romano turned and saw the gun. ‘You’d better put that away, Miss Whitney. It could go off.’
‘It’s going to go off if you don’t do exactly what I tell you to. You’re going to write down how you stripped the company, put it into bankruptcy, and drove my mother to suicide.’
He was watching her carefully now, his dark eyes wary. ‘I see. What if I refuse?’
‘Then I’m going to kill you.’ She could feel the gun shaking in her hand.
‘You don’t look like a killer, Miss Whitney.’ He was moving towards her now, a drink in his hand. His voice was soft and sincere. ‘I had nothing to do with your mother’s death, and believe me, I –’ He threw the drink in her face.
Tracy felt the sharp sting of the alcohol in her eyes, and an instant later the gun was knocked from her hand.
‘Your old lady held out on me,’ Joe Romano said. ‘She didn’t tell me she had a horny-looking daughter.’
He was holding her, pinning her arms, and Tracy was blinded and terrified. She tried to move away from him, but he backed her into a wall, pressing against her.
‘You have guts, baby. I like that. It turns me on.’ His voice was hoarse. Tracy could feel his body hard against hers, and she tried to twist away, but she was helpless in his grip.
‘You came here for a little excitement, huh? Well, Joe’s going to give it to you.’
She tried to scream, but her voice came out in a gasp. ‘Let me go!’
He ripped her blouse away. ‘Hey! Look at those tits,’ he whispered. He began pinching her nipples. ‘Fight me, baby,’ he whispered. ‘I love it.’
‘Let go of me!’
He was squeezing harder, hurting her. She felt herself being forced down to the floor.
‘I’ll bet you’ve never been fucked by a real man,’ he said. He was astride her now, his body heavy on hers, his hands moving up her thighs. Tracy pushed out blindly, and her fingers touched the gun. She grabbed for it, and there was a sudden, loud explosion.
‘Oh, Jesus!’ Romano cried. His grip suddenly relaxed. Through a red mist, Tracy watched in horror as he fell off her and slumped to the floor, clutching his side. ‘You shot me … you bitch. You shot me …’
Tracy was transfixed, unable to move. She felt she was going to be sick, and her eyes were blinded by stabbing pain. She pulled herself to her feet, turned, and stumbled to a door at the far end of the room. She pushed it open. It was a bathroom. She staggered over to the sink, filled the basin with cold water, and bathed her eyes until the pain began to subside and her vision cleared. She looked into the cabinet mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot and wild looking. My God, I’ve just killed a man. She ran back into the living room.
Joe Romano lay on the floor, his blood seeping onto the white rug. Tracy stood over him, white-faced. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said inanely. ‘I didn’t mean to –’
‘Ambulance …’ His breathing was ragged.
Tracy hurried to the telephone on the desk and dialled the operator. When she tried to speak, her voice was choked. ‘Operator, send an ambulance right away. The address is Four-twenty-one Jackson Square. A man has been shot.’
She replaced the receiver and looked down at Joe Romano. Oh, God, she prayed, please don’t let him die. You know I didn’t mean to kill him. She knelt beside the body on the floor to see if he was still alive. His eyes were closed, but he was breathing. ‘An ambulance is on its way,’ Tracy promised.
She fled.
She tried not to run, afraid of attracting attention. She pulled her jacket close around her to conceal her ripped blouse. Four blocks from the house Tracy tried to hail a taxi. Half a dozen sped past her, filled with happy, laughing passengers. In the distance Tracy heard the sound of an approaching siren, and seconds later an ambulance raced past her, headed in the direction of Joe Romano’s house. I’ve got to get away from here, Tracy thought. Ahead of her, a taxi pulled to the curb and discharged its passengers. Tracy ran towards it, afraid of losing it. ‘Are you free?’
‘That depends. Where you goin’?’
‘The airport.’ She held her breath.
‘Get in.’
On the way to the airport, Tracy thought about the ambulance. What if they were too late and Joe Romano was dead? She would be a murderess. She had left the gun back at the house, and her fingerprints were on it. She could tell the police that Romano had tried to rape her and that the gun had gone off accidentally, but they would never believe her. She had purchased the gun that was lying on the floor beside Joe Romano. How much time had passed? Half an hour? An hour? She had to get out of New Orleans as quickly as possible.
‘Enjoy the carnival?’ the driver asked.
Tracy swallowed. ‘I – yes.’ She pulled out her hand mirror and did what she could to make herself presentable. She had been stupid to try to make Joe Romano confess. Everything had gone wrong. How can I tell Charles what happened? She knew how shocked he would be, but after she explained, he would understand. Charles would know what to do.
When the taxi arrived at New Orleans International Airport, Tracy wondered, Was it only this morning that I was here? Did all this happen in just one day? Her mother’s suicide … the horror of being swept up in the carnival … the man snarling, ‘You shot me … you bitch …’
When Tracy walked into the terminal, it seemed to her that everyone was staring at her accusingly. That’s what a guilty conscience does, she thought. She wished there were some way she could learn about Joe Romano’s condition, but she had no idea what hospital he would be taken to or whom she could call. He’s going to be all right. Charles and I will come back for Mother’s funeral, and Joe Romano will be fine. She tried to push from her mind the vision of the man lying on the white rug, his blood staining it red. She had to hurry home to Charles.
Tracy approached the Delta Airlines counter. ‘I’d like a one-way ticket on the next flight to Philadelphia, please. Tourist.’
The passenger representative consulted his computer. ‘That will be Flight three-o-four. You’re in luck. I have one seat left.’
‘What time does the plane leave?’
‘In twenty minutes. You just have time to board.’
As Tracy reached into her handbag, she sensed rather than saw two uniformed police officers step up on either side of her. One of them said, ‘Tracy Whitney?’
Her heart stopped beating for an instant. It would be stupid to deny my identity. ‘Yes …’
‘You’re under arrest.’
And Tracy felt the cold steel of handcuffs snapped on her wrists.
Everything was happening in slow motion to someone else. Tracy watched herself being led through the airport, manacled to one of the policemen, while passersby turned to stare. She was shoved into the back of a black-and-white squad car with steel mesh separating the front seat from the rear. The police car sped away from the curb with red lights flashing and sirens screaming. She huddled in the back seat, trying to become invisible. She was a murderess. Joseph Romano had died. But it had been an accident. She would explain how it happened. They had to believe her. They had to.
The police station Tracy was taken to was in the Algiers district, on the west bank of New Orleans, a grim and foreboding building with a look of hopelessness about it. The booking room was crowded with seedy-looking characters – prostitutes, pimps, muggers and their victims. Tracy was marched to the desk of the sergeant-on-watch.
One of her captors said, ‘The Whitney woman, Sarge. We caught her at the airport tryin’ to escape.’
‘I wasn’t –’
‘Take the cuffs off.’
The handcuffs were removed. Tracy found her voice. ‘It was an accident. I didn’t mean to kill him. He tried to rape me and –’ She could not control the hysteria in her voice.
The desk sergeant said curtly, ‘Are you Tracy Whitney?’
‘Yes. I –’
‘Lock her up.’
‘No! Wait a minute,’ she pleaded. ‘I have to call someone. I – I’m entitled to make a phone call.’
The desk sergeant grunted, ‘You know the routine, huh? How many times you been in the slammer, honey?’
‘None. This is –’
‘You get one call. Three minutes. What number do you want?’
She was so nervous that she could not remember Charles’s telephone number. She could not even recall the area code for Philadelphia. Was it two-five-one? No. That was not it. She was trembling.
‘Come on. I haven’t got all night.’
Two-one-five. That was it! ‘Two-one-five-five-five-five-nine-three-zero-one.’
The desk sergeant dialled the number and handed the phone to Tracy. She could hear the phone ringing. And ringing. There was no answer. Charles had to be home.
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