Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(25)

Numb with exhaustion, Allison turns off the television and walks into her bedroom, yawning.

She’s just spent the last hour watching the news, listening to F–16s flying overhead, and wondering how she’s ever going to sleep tonight.

But it’s now or never. The sun will be coming up soon.

As she climbs into bed and reaches over to turn off the lamp, something on the bedside table catches her eye: the business card from the man she met Monday night—the one who shared his cab with her.

William A. Kenyon, who works at an investment bank.

She looks at the card.

The firm is Keefe, Bruyette, & Woods, Inc.—and the address jumps out at her: Two World Trade Center.

Allison stares at it for a long time, then carefully sets the card back on the bedside table.

She’ll call him tomorrow. Just to make sure he’s all right. Maybe they’ll go out on a date. Maybe he’s Mr. Right, after all.

Or was.

Maybe she’ll never know.

She turns off the lamp.

Pulling the covers up to her neck, she listens to the eerie sounds beyond the open window. After a while, amid the wailing sirens, occasional passing trucks, and the buzz of fighter planes, she realizes she can hear faint strains of music.

It’s that song by Alicia Keys—“Fallin’ ”—and it seems to be coming from somewhere above.

Kristina’s apartment? Allison hasn’t heard music playing up there in months. Kristina said she can’t even afford a CD player, and she’s often mentioned that she doesn’t like pop music. An aspiring Broadway dancer, the girl is obsessed with musical theater—she hums show tunes when she’s doing laundry—when she’s not talking, that is.

The music seems to be playing directly above Allison’s apartment, but maybe not. Maybe it’s coming from someplace else, and it’s audible tonight because the city is so quiet, or because Allison’s hearing is particularly honed.

In any case, she can hear it clearly enough to make out the soulful piano melody and hear the lyrics: “How can you give me so much pleasure . . . and cause me so much pain . . .”

When the song ends, it starts right up again—and then again, and again, finally lulling an uneasy but exhausted Allison to sleep.

“What do you mean you went over there, Jerry? Why would you do that?” Jamie paces, trying to absorb what Jerry is saying; what Jerry has done.

“She said she loved me. I just wanted to see her, and . . . and . . .” Jerry sobs. “I saw what you did. Why did you have to do that, Jamie?”

“You knew she had to be punished for what she did to you. I told you it was time to say good-bye.”

“But I didn’t know you meant . . . Jamie, she’s dead.”

“How did you get in and out of the apartment, Jerry?”

“She’s dead . . . I didn’t want her to die.”

“Stop your blubbering.”

“I can’t. I’m sad.”

“You’re going to be a lot more than sad if you don’t listen to me carefully. Tell me how you got in and out of the apartment when you went over there.”

“With my key.”

“Jesus, Jerry . . . You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why not?”

“Did you forget about the surveillance cameras?”

“Yes! I forgot! Did you forget, too? What if there’s a picture of you?”

“I went in and out through the fire escape window. There’s not a picture of me . . . but there’s going to be a picture of you. Dammit, Jerry.”

“I’m sorry,” Jerry sobbed. “Why are you so mad?”

“Because when they find Kristina, they’re going to look at that tape to find the killer, and they’re going to see a picture of you.”

“But that’s okay, because I didn’t do it.”

“They’re going to think that you did.”

“I’ll tell them that I didn’t. And don’t worry, Jamie . . . I won’t tell them that you did. I can keep a secret. Mama taught me how.”

I’ll just bet she did.

But right now, Jamie has other things to think about. That video footage needs to be removed from the building.

Looks like there will be no rest tonight for the weary after all.





Chapter Five

“Kristina?” Allison calls through the closed door and knocks, yet again.

Still no reply.

Inside the apartment, Alicia Keys is singing “Fallin’ ”—again. So the music was—is—definitely coming from here.

Something is wrong.

That was her first thought when she woke up a little while ago—after sleeping for a solid seven hours—to find the sun streaming in the windows.

Something is wrong.

Her gaze happened to fall on the business card on her nightstand . . . the card that reads Two World Trade Center . . . and the horror of yesterday’s attack immediately washed over her.

Even as it all came back, she realized she could still hear the music coming from upstairs.

The same song—that’s what has her feeling so uneasy. If it were just a radio playing, she probably wouldn’t think twice. No one, however, plays the same damned song over and over again if everything is okay.