The anchorwoman was talking. "With Grace Brookstein now missing for over seventeen hours, the police appear to have no concrete leads. With me is Detective Mitchell Connors of the NYPD, the man leading the investigation into Brookstein's escape. Detective, people are already saying that you and your men are running out of ideas. Do you feel that's a fair statement?"
An attractive blond cop responded by video link.
"No, Nancy, I don't believe it is. We're pursuing a number of different avenues. This investigation is only hours old. It's our belief that the prisoner will be apprehended swiftly and we're working toward that conclusion."
Grace studied the cop's face. Detective Mitchell Connors looked like he'd been sketched by a cartoonist at Marvel Comics, all square jaw and steady, blue-eyed gaze. Physically he reminded Grace of a rougher-around-the-edges version of her brother-in-law Jack Warner. But his expression was nothing like Jack's. If anything, it was more like Lenny's. It's his eyes. He has kind eyes.
He was still talking. "Grace Brookstein and her husband brought extraordinary suffering to thousands of people, particularly here in New York. Believe me, Nancy, no one wants to see this convicted felon back behind bars more than I do. Make no mistake. We will find her."
Grace switched off the television.
Detective Connors might have kind eyes, but he's my enemy.
She mustn't forget it.
THAT AFTERNOON, GRACE WALKED INTO TOWN. It was all she could do to stop her teeth from chattering, knowing that her face was all over the news, that at any moment, someone might recognize her and turn her in to the authorities. But she couldn't hide out at the motel forever. She needed supplies, and she needed to get out of Richardsville. Karen and Cora had both warned her of the dangers of staying in one place too long.
With the van driver's bulky jacket pulled tightly around her, Grace kept her head down as she walked the aisles of a Walmart. At the checkout, her heart was pounding so violently she thought she might faint. Happily the sullen teenager manning the register seemed more interested in the chip on one of her acrylic nails than in the nervous customer or her purchases.
"Eighty-eight dollazs yer total; cash 'r credit?"
"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."
Chapter 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?"