“Cash.”
“Thangshaveaniceday.”
The girl didn’t even look up.
By the time Grace returned to her room at the Up All Night, it was almost four P.M. Locking the door, she emptied her Walmart bags onto the bed: hair dye, scissors, makeup, disinfectant, underwear, a three-pack of Haines T-shirts, jeans, a beanie hat, and a gray carry-all gym bag.
She got to work.
THE OLD MAN AT THE RECEPTION desk studied the picture in his newspaper. His eyes weren’t what they used to be.
Could it be?
This girl’s nose was different. And the hair. Still, there was definitely a resemblance. And she had arrived in the middle of the night, with no suitcase. He looked at the paper again. The cop on the TV said to report anything suspicious, no matter how trivial.
The old man picked up the phone.
GRACE LOOKED AT HERSELF IN THE cracked bathroom mirror. Except it wasn’t herself. It was someone else, the first of her four new identities. Lizzie Woolley.
Hello, Lizzie.
Carefully cleaning up all traces of dye and picking every lock of severed hair off the floor, Grace dropped them into the empty Walmart bag along with the discarded bottle of Nice ’n Easy and her old clothes, tied the bag by the handles and stuffed it into her carry-all. She dressed quickly. The clean clothes felt wonderful. For a moment Grace thought back to her old life and smiled. She could never have imagined back then that the day would come when a pair of Walmart jeans would feel like the last word in luxury! She’d already spent two-thirds of the cash Karen and Cora had given her. Pretty soon she would have to make e-mail contact with Karen’s mysterious “friend” and ask for more. Cora had assured her that getting cash from Western Union was anonymous and easy. All you had to do was show up at one of their hundreds of thousands of locations, show your (fake) ID and take the money. “It’s how every illegal immigrant in this country makes rent, honey. It’s their business not to ask questions.” Even so, Grace hoped she wouldn’t have to do it too often.
She’d checked the bus timetable earlier. The next bus to the city left at 6:15 P.M.
Plenty of time.
THE OLD MAN KNOCKED ON THE DOOR.
No answer. Officer McInley, Richardsville’s finest—Richardsville’s only—looked pissed. “I thought you said she was definitely here?”
Officer McInley knew the minute Old Man Murdoch called that it’d be some stupid-ass wild-goose chase. Grace Brookstein, staying at the Up All Night? Yeah, right. She was probably sharing a room with Kermit the Frog and Herman Munster. Everyone in Richardsville knew that Murdoch had lost his marbles years ago.
“She’s here, all right? Saw her come in wi’ my own two eyes and she ain’t come out again. Muz be sleepin’.”
Unhooking the master key from his belt loop, the old man unlocked the door.
“Miss?”
The room was empty. Not just empty but pristine. The bed was made, the surfaces wiped clean. It looked as if no one had stayed there in weeks.
Officer McInley rolled his eyes.
“She wuz here, I tell ya! Last two nights. I swear to God. Musta ’scaped out the winda.”
“Uh-huh.” On a flying monkey. “Well, if you see her again, you be sure and let us know.”
SEVENTEEN
MARIA PRESTON FLOATED INTO THE SIXTH-FLOOR Caprice restaurant in Hong Kong’s Four Seasons Hotel. In a chiffon caftan, dripping in newly bought pearls from the Guangzhou City jewelry district, she waved the newspaper excitedly at her husband.
“Have you seen this, Andy?”
“Seen what, my love?”
“Grace Brookstein’s escaped from prison!”
Andrew Preston went white. “Escaped? What do you mean she’s escaped? That’s not possible.” Snatching the paper, he read the front-page story.
A major police operation was under way last night in New York after convicted con artist Grace Brookstein apparently broke out of a maximum-security facility in Westchester County. Brookstein, one of the most notorious women in America, is believed to have stolen upward of $70 billion in a conspiracy masterminded by her late husband, Leonard…
“Can you believe it?” Maria giggled as she poured herself a large glass of fresh orange juice. “Escaped from jail. It’s like something out of Desperate Housewives. Next thing you know she’ll wake up in the shower with amnesia and the last twenty years will never have happened! Do you think they’ll catch her?”
Andrew was too stunned to speak. This was a disaster. A catastrophe. Just when he thought the whole nightmare was behind him, Grace had to pull a stunt like this and reopen old wounds. Maria seemed to think it was some sort of joke. But then why wouldn’t she? She had no idea of the stress he’d been under. As long as she had money to spend—this trip to Hong Kong alone had cost over $40,000, not including the astronomical sums Maria had “saved” on pearl jewelry—she was happy. What was it to her if Andrew hadn’t slept properly in over a year? If he lay in their bed in the $12,000-a-night presidential suite overlooking Victoria Harbor and Kowloon Bay, bent double with stomach cramps and crippling migraines, haunted by nightmares involving Lenny Brookstein and the scarred, terrifying face of a man named Donald Anthony Le Bron? Had it not been for Maria, he would never have done what he did. Never have betrayed a friend, never have become a thief, never have had cause to associate with the likes of Le Bron. And yet he couldn’t tell her. He just couldn’t.
Most distressing of all was the alopecia. Since last Christmas, Andrew’s hair had started falling out in clumps, like a dog with mange. He panicked. I’m falling to pieces. Literally. It’s the beginning of the end.
Thank God it was John Merrivale who had to deal with the FBI day in, day out, and not him. The stress would have finished him off. Andrew could hear John’s voice in his head now, repeating the mantra: “Just stick to the story and you’ll be f-fine. We both will.”
So far, they had. But Grace’s escape could change everything.
“Andy, are you listening to me? I said, do you think they’ll catch her?”
“Yes. I’m sure they’ll catch her.” They have to.
“What will happen to her then, do you think?”
“I don’t know. They’ll take her back to jail, I suppose.”
Andrew thought about Grace Brookstein, the sweet, naive child he’d known for all those years. Poor Grace. She was the only truly innocent victim in all of this. Unfortunately, that was what happened to pure little lambs. They got slaughtered.
Maria sipped her orange juice contentedly. “Don’t look so miserable, Andy. Anyone would think it was you the police were after. Now give me back the newspaper, would you? There’s a gorgeous Balenciaga dress in the fashion pages. I’m thinking of having it copied.”
JACK WARNER SAW THE NEWS ON TELEVISION. He was in a bar with Fred Farrell, his campaign manager, discussing his reelection strategy. When he saw Grace’s face on the TV screen, he choked on his pistachios.
“Holy mother of God. Can you believe this?”
Fred Farrell couldn’t. People didn’t break out of places like Bedford Hills. Not in real life. Especially not petite, blond trophy wives like Grace Brookstein.
“You’ll have to make a statement.”
Fred Farrell’s brilliant political mind was already whirring. This was not a good time for the Quorum scandal to come back and haunt them. Grace would probably be caught within a few hours, but the renewed media interest in the Brookstein case could last for months. Jack must not be dragged into it.
“I’ll write you something. In the meantime, go home and lay low.”
Jack Warner went home. During the hour-long drive to Westchester, he composed his thoughts. Fred Farrell didn’t know the half of it. He knew about the gambling debts, and Lenny Brookstein’s refusal to pay them. But Jack Warner had other skeletons in his closet besides gambling. Explosive secrets that could destroy him and put an end to all his political hopes.
Lenny knew the truth. But Lenny’s dead, burning in hell, where he belongs.
The question was, had he taken his knowledge with him to his watery grave? Or had he shared what he knew with his beloved wife? While Grace was safely under lock and key, it didn’t matter. But now she was out, running for her life. A loose cannon, with nothing to lose.
I can’t let that bitch destroy me. I won’t.
Honor ran out to the driveway to meet him. Her eyes were red and swollen. It was obvious she’d been crying. “Oh, Jack! Have you seen the news?”
“Of course I’ve seen it.” He bundled her indoors. The press could show up at any minute. “For God’s sake, pull yourself together. Why are you crying?”
Honor didn’t know. She’d always envied Grace. Resented her. Hated her even. At the same time, her baby sister’s conviction troubled her. Grace was no more capable of perpetrating a sophisticated fraud than she was of changing a tire or filling out a tax return. Honor knew that better than anyone. I should have spoken up for her in court. Or at least visited her in prison. But I didn’t. I did what Jack told me to. I always do what Jack tells me to.