False Impression

Jack moved farther down the corridor, removed the replica key from an inside pocket, and, after one more glance toward the front desk, opened box 13. He stared inside and tried to remain calm, although his heart was pounding. He extracted one bill from the box and placed it in his wallet. Jack locked the box and put the key back in his pocket.

The old man turned another page and began to study the racing odds as Jack walked back onto the street.

He had to cover eleven blocks before he found an empty cab, but he didn’t attempt to call Dick Macy until he’d been dropped back at his apartment. He unlocked the front door, ran through to the kitchen, and placed the hundred-dollar bill on the table. He then recalled how deep and how wide the empty box had been, before attempting to calculate how many hundred-dollar bills must have been stuffed into box 13. By the time he called Macy, he’d measured a space out on the kitchen table and used several five-hundred-page paperbacks to assist him in his calculation.

“I thought I told you to take the rest of the weekend off,” said Macy.

“I’ve found the box that NYRC 13 opens.”

“What was inside?”

“Hard to be certain,” replied Jack, “but I’d say around two million dollars.”

“Your leave is canceled,” said Macy.

9/23

44

“GOOD NEWS,” DECLARED the doctor on the morning of the third day. “Your wound is nearly healed, and I shall be recommending to the authorities that you can be moved to Jilava penitentiary tomorrow.”

With this, the doctor had determined her timetable. After he had changed her dressing and departed without another word, Krantz lay in bed going over her plan again and again. She only asked to visit the bathroom at two P.M. She slept soundly between three and nine.

“She’s been no trouble all day,” Krantz heard one of the guards report when he handed over his keys to the night shift at ten o’clock.

Krantz didn’t stir for the next two hours, aware that two of the guards would be waiting impatiently to accompany her to the bathroom and collect their nightly stipend. But the timing had to suit her. She would cater for their needs at four minutes past four, not before, when one would receive forty dollars, and he would make sure that the other got a packet of Benson & Hedges. Disproportionate, but then one had a far more important role to play. She spent the next two hours wide awake.

Anna left her apartment to set out on her morning run just before six A.M. Sam rushed from behind his desk to open the door for her—a Cheshire cat grin hadn’t left his face from the moment she’d arrived back.

Anna wondered at what point Jack would catch up with her. She had to admit, he’d been in her thoughts a lot since they had parted yesterday, and she already hoped their relationship might stray beyond a professional interest.

“Beware,” Tina had warned her over supper. “Once he’s got what he wants, he’ll move on, and it isn’t necessarily sex that he’s after.”

Pity, she remembered thinking.

“Fenston loves the Van Gogh,” Tina assured her. “He’s given the painting pride of place on the wall behind his desk.”

In fact, Tina had been forthcoming

about everything Fenston and Leapman had been up to during the past ten days. However, despite gentle probing, hints, and well-placed questions, by the time they left the restaurant a couple of hours later Anna was no nearer to finding out why Fenston had such a hold over her.

Anna couldn’t help remembering that the last time she’d run around Central Park was on the morning of the eleventh. The dark gray cloud may have finally dispersed, but there were several other reminders of that dreadful day, not least the two words on everyone’s lips: Ground Zero. She put aside the horrors of that day when she spotted Jack jogging on the spot under Artists’ Gate.

“Been waiting long, Stalker?” Anna asked, as she strode past him and up around the pond.

“No,” he replied, once he’d caught up. “I’ve already been around twice, so I’m treating this as a cooling-down session.”

“Cooling down already, are we?” said Anna, as she accelerated away. She knew she wouldn’t be able to maintain that pace for long and it was only a few seconds before he was back striding by her side.

“Not bad,” said Jack, “but how long can you keep it up?”

“I thought that was a male problem,” Anna said, still trying to set the pace. She decided that her only hope would be to distract him. She waited until the Frick came in sight.

“Name five artists on display in that museum,” she demanded, hoping his lack of knowledge would compensate for her lack of speed.

“Bellini, Mary Cassatt, Renoir, Rembrandt, and two Holbeins—More and Cromwell.”

“Yes, but which Cromwell?” asked Anna, panting.