Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(89)

“Is . . . is everything all right?” Emily asks, but of course it isn’t. The NYPD doesn’t call in the middle of the night if everything is all right.

“I’m investigating a pair of murders over the past couple of days . . .”

Murders . . . Dale?

Confused, her thoughts whirling with impossibilities, Emily sinks onto the nearest chair.

“Both murders took place in two different buildings owned by your husband.”

“You’re not thinking . . .” Emily shakes her head rapidly.

Of course not. No one could possibly think Dale killed anyone.

“I’m trying to locate a handyman who works in both buildings. I have a tenant—a witness—who placed him at the scene of the first murder, and we need to question him.”

Jerry wouldn’t hurt a fly is her first thought.

But then she considers that he was the victim of a brutal crime years ago. She’s watched enough episodes of Dateline and 20/20 to know that violent offenders are initially often victims themselves.

“Mrs. Reiss?” Detective Manzillo prods, “I need his last name, and an address, and I also need—”

“I wish I could tell you,” she cuts in, “but I don’t know either of those things, and I’m positive my husband doesn’t, either, because I asked him about it just tonight.”

“Tonight? Why is that?” he asks sharply.

“Just because I was worried about Jerry, and I thought we should call to make sure he’s okay. He’s . . . mentally impaired. I’m not sure if you know that.”

“I did. How well do you know him, Mrs. Reiss?”

“Not very well.” Her head is spinning. “I volunteer for the soup kitchen in his old neighborhood, down in Brooklyn. He moved to Manhattan a few years ago, but—”

“Hold on, back up. Where in Brooklyn? Tell me the old address.”

“I don’t have the address. But maybe someone who works at the soup kitchen can—”

“Names,” the detective cuts in brusquely. “I need names, Mrs. Reiss. Someone I can talk to.”

“Diana Wade,” she tells him. “She’s the director of the soup kitchen. She’s been there longer than I have.”

“Do you have a phone number for her?”

“I have it in my cell phone, but it’s dead, and I can’t charge it until I get a charger. I’m sure I have it written down someplace back at my apartment, but . . .”

“Diana Wade,” he murmurs, and she can tell he’s taking notes. “W-A-D-E, right? Is she married? Or would she be listed under her own name?”

“She’s never been married. She lives alone.”

“Where?”

“Someplace off Gramercy Park, I think. I’m not—”

“I’ll find her. I also need your husband’s cooperation in accessing the video surveillance footage of the public hallways. Can you please put him on the phone?”

“Hang on a minute.” Emily lowers the phone and hurries past Jacky, heading for the guest room.

“Wait, what’s going on?” Her sister trails her. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” Emily says simply, and goes in to wake Dale.

“What’s going on? What’s wrong?” Mack keeps asking, but Allison can’t catch her breath to explain.

She still can’t believe what just happened. If she hadn’t noticed the flashing light and paused to check her messages before walking into the bedroom; if she hadn’t picked up that bookend . . .

She looks over her shoulder into the dark vestibule of the building, expecting to see someone coming after her. Tugging Mack’s arm, she pulls him down the steps with her, away from the door.

“Allison, what—”

“Just call 911,” she repeats, dragging him along the sidewalk. Still panting from three flights of stairs, she darts a glance up at her fourth floor windows. “Please. And we have to get away from here, it’s not safe. “

Mack reaches into the pocket of his blue jacket, pulls out his cell phone.

She nods and stops walking, pressing a hand against her sternum as her heart seems to smash rhythmically against it, trying to escape.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m okay. I was just . . .”

Scared. She was scared. Terrified. Still is.

But even now, she can’t bring herself to say it aloud.

“Someone was in my apartment. Please call the police.”

“I am, I’m calling, just tell me quickly first, what happened?”

“I came home, and he was there. I saw him before he could—I threw something heavy at him—I think I hurt him, because I heard him go down, but . . . I don’t know, I just ran.”

“Did you get a look at him?”

“No. I just ran,” she says again.

Mack nods and for the second time since they met, she watches him punch three numbers into his telephone keypad: 911.

Diana Wade is remarkably good-natured for someone who was awakened fifteen minutes ago by a phone call from the NYPD in the dead of night. She greets Rocky and Brandewyne at the door wearing a housecoat and a warm smile, but her dogs—a toy poodle and two Chihuahuas—aren’t nearly as welcoming.