Taylor went numb.
The first thing she did was contact the greeting-card company. Or at least she tried. All she got was a recording, cheerfully wishing her a Merry Christmas and suggesting she call back tomorrow.
She did. For all the good it did her.
The customer-service manager explained that all they kept track of was the information the sender provided about himself—his name and e-mail address. And in this case, whoever had sent the e-card
had provided Taylor's e-mail address in both the recipient and sender boxes. There was nothing more
the company could tell her.
In short, the card was untraceable. Which meant there was no way to connect it to Gordon.
It didn't matter. Taylor knew in her gut that he'd sent it. And the very thought of it made her sick. Because it meant that the afternoon he'd forced himself on her hadn't been spur-of-the-moment lust. It meant he'd been planning it—and arranged for his calling card to follow. He'd given this whole fictitious relationship he'd conjured up in his mind far more thought than she'd realized.
Okay, fine, Taylor thought, desperately trying to get a grip on her emotions. So Gordon had sent the
card. So he'd targeted her as more than his next sexual conquest. From the things he'd said to her
that day, he was clearly fixated on her. He saw her as something to capture—and to control. What difference did it make? All that was over now. He was dead. He'd obviously inputted this card
months ago, providing a December 25 delivery date. She had to calm down.
* * *
She'd almost convinced herself when New Year's Day arrived—along with another e-card. Heart pounding, Taylor clicked her mouse to open it.
As the card materialized on her monitor, she was greeted with the tinkling notes of "Winter Wonderland."
Talk about a paradox.
The graphics were anything but upbeat. Another night scene. This time a far-off cabin on a barren hill. Naked trees. A blanket of fallen snow in the forefront. Inside the cabin, a single window, dimly lit.
The figure of a woman silhouetted there.
The scene conveyed an eerie sense of isolation, one that sent shivers up Taylor's spine.
The rhyme itself was inked in the snow. It was entitled "My New Year's Vow."
Like snow without footprints, the New Year unfolds
A stark new beginning, and all that it holds
Looming ahead like a snow'covered hill
Is a book of blank pages that I'll watch you fill.
No signature.
But none was necessary.
I'll be watching you ...
There it was again. Implicit or not. Gordon's threat, thrown back in Taylor's face. And, like the
previous card, her name and e-mail address had been inputted as both sender and recipient.
Taylor snapped.
* * *
At nine a.m. on January 2, she called Detective Hadman at the Nineteenth Precinct, blurting out the details of the back-to-back incidents.
"Listen to me, Ms. Halstead," he said calmly. "First of all, there's no proof Gordon Mallory sent you those cards. That having been said, yeah, given the MO and the wording, it is a little weird. So let's assume he sent them. You know the way these greeting-card Web sites work; you can instruct them to send the card up to a year after you write it. So he programmed one to show up on Christmas Day and one on New Year's."
"I realize that, Detective. I also realize that this is harassment, even if the guy who's doing it is dead. Clearly, Gordon was scoping me out for some time. God knows how many more of these cards he programmed to pop up on my computer this year."
"I see your point," Hadman replied carefully, as if weighing the best way to rein Taylor in. "My suggestion? Change your e-mail address. Then whatever else he might have sent won't ever reach you."
"But—"
"Let it go, Ms. Halstead. Gordon Mallory is dead."
"Are you sure?" she heard her own shaky voice demand. "Absolutely sure? Even without a body?"
She was panicking, pursuing the absurd, and she knew it. But she needed the reassurance of hearing
Detective Hadman's staunch verbal confirmation.
"Yes." Hadman said. "I'm sure. Mallory was identified as being aboard the yacht when it left the dock. The explosion was enormous. No one survived. The waters off Montauk are shark-infested. So, like
I said, Gordon Mallory's dead. Stop torturing yourself."
Yeah, right, Taylor thought. Easy for you to say. "All right, Detective. I'll do my best."
"Good. And don't forget what I said about changing your e-mail address."
"I won't. I'll call my Internet provider right away. Thanks for your time."
She hung up.
JANUARY 8
8:30 P.M.
CHRYSLER BUILDING,
405 LEXINGTON AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY
Jonathan Mallory leaned back in his office chair, listening with interest to the panel discussion taking
place on WVNY's Teen Talk.
Two renowned psychiatrists were discussing the impact of childhood trauma on the adults those kids became. Moderating the panel was the talk-show host, Taylor Halstead.
She was a bright woman. Jonathan had listened to her show for several weeks now. She had a lot to
say about children and their environments, about parents and their responsibilities, about familial relationships and how to make them work.
If she wanted to hear about screwed-up childhoods, he could tell her stories that would make her head spin.
Actually, he'd fully expected to have the chance to do just that. He'd assumed she'd contact him months ago. She'd asked enough questions of Gordon's colleagues right after the explosion. Questions about Gordon and his family. She knew he existed, and that he lived and worked in Manhattan. He assumed she'd follow through by showing up on his doorstep, especially after hitting a brick wall out at the Hamptons with Douglas and Adrienne.
But she hadn't.
Too bad. It would have made keeping tabs on her much easier.
Next week's meeting would tell. Either she'd take the money and go away quietly or she'd keep poking around. The latter could mean trouble. And that would force his hand.
Rising, Jonathan walked over to his sideboard.
He paused, listening intently to Taylor's earnest tone as she posed the next question to her guests: How can a traumatized child overcome the odds and make the most of his or her future?
With a tight smile, Jonathan poured himself a Scotch.
10:03 P.M.
WVNY TALK RADIO,
SEVENTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY
STUDIO B
The red "on the air" light went out.
Keying the mike, producer Kevin Hodges announced, "We're off." From inside her private, softly lit recording studio, Taylor took a reviving sip of cranberry juice and eased away from the microphone and the control panel that coordinated her activities with the massive array of dials, switches, and computers sitting on the other side of the wall—the side that was her producer and audio engineer's domain.
Meeting Kevin's gaze through the long rectangular window that was her only visual connection with the outer studio, she gave him a thumbs-up. She then sat back in her chair, tugging the audio piece out of her ear and smiling across the desk at her guests. "That was great. You touched on some very important points. Especially the fact that childhood trauma doesn't have to ruin lives. It can be dealt with through counseling and emotional support. Kids need to hear that. Thanks so much for being here."
"Our pleasure." Dr. Mazer rose from one of the tufted leather guest chairs that were clustered around Taylor's kidney-shaped desk and gathered up her notes. "Let's hope we helped some people who are reluctant to call in."
Dr. Felmore shook Taylor's hand. "Your style is commendable," he praised. "A combination of compassion and clarity. You'll reach a lot of young people that way."
"I hope so. It's ce
rtainly my goal in hosting this show." Taylor glanced up as the thick door to her inner sanctum opened and her assistant, Laura Michaels, poked her head in.
"I have some things to go over with you when it's convenient."
"We have to be going anyway," Dr. Mazer assured Taylor. "Let's do this again sometime."
"I'd enjoy that."
Taylor waited until her guests had left, then turned to Laura. "So, what do we have—letters? E-mails? Phone calls?"
"All the above." Laura plopped down in a chair across from Taylor's desk and began organizing her various pieces of correspondence.
"Nice show," Kevin commented through the mike that connected the production side of the studio with Taylor's.
"Yeah, not to mention that Dr. Mazer bakes one hell of a blackout cake." Rick Shore, Taylor's audio engineer, put in his two cents, cutting another slice of cake as he popped out the minidisk containing tonight's show, then labeled it. "You know," he commented, turning to Kevin, "I think we should make bringing baked goods a prerequisite for all our guests."
"Great. Then you won't be able to reach the controls over your spare tire." Kevin continued to shut
things down on his end while he spoke. "Better get out here fast, Taylor, or you won't get anything
but crumbs."
Taylor smiled. "Thanks for the warning."
"By the way, Romeo called again tonight. He wanted to know if you were free for brunch on Sunday."
"And you said?"
"That you had a previous commitment, and that if he wanted advice, he should call with a question, not
a request for a date."
"Straightforward enough." Taylor's lips twitched. Being in this business, she'd gotten used to all kinds
of odd phone calls. It was natural that when you spoke about personal issues, people would feel a connection. Some regarded her as a personal friend, some despised her views and used her as a
whipping post, and some wanted to bring her home to mother. Everyone at WVNY was a pro. They knew when a caller sounded scary. This one just wanted a date—every other day.
"Do you need us?" Rick asked, finishing the shutdown process—and his cake. "Because I've got a situation at home. If we're through, I'm going to take off."
"Go." Taylor waved them away. "I've got a few things to review with Laura, then I'll be heading out,
too. I've got an early meeting at school tomorrow." She turned to Laura. "Okay, shoot."
Laura shoved a pile across the desk. "This is the take-home stuff. Read it when you have time." She pointed at another pile. "Here's what we have to go over. But before we do ..." She pulled out a pink phone message and handed it to Taylor. "Your attorney called. He said to call back at your earliest convenience."
Taylor frowned, taking and scanning the message that read Joseph Lehar, Esq.—call back ASAP.
"Did he mention what it was about?"
"Something about a meeting."
A meeting? That was odd. Usually, when Joseph called her, it was to discuss Steph's estate, of which
she was the executor.
"I'll call him first thing tomorrow."
"He said he'd be in the office until eleven o'clock tonight, catching up on paperwork."
"Fine. Then I'll call him now."
"I'll wait outside." Laura rose, leaving the studio and shutting the door behind her.
Taylor punched in the law firm's phone number, then pressed Joseph's extension.
He picked up on the third ring, sounding fuzzy with fatigue. "Yes?"
"Hello, Joseph, it's Taylor Halstead. You wanted to speak with me?"
"Taylor, yes." Some shuffling of papers. "I got a call from Horace Randolph of Harter, Randolph and Collins. He's asked to meet with us."
Harter, Randolph & Collins? Taylor knew they were a prominent Park Avenue law firm. "What on
earth does Mr. Randolph want with me? Isn't he a corporate lawyer?"
"Yes, but the firm represents some influential personal clients, too. And Horace specializes in trusts and estates."
"Trusts and estates. Does this have to do with Steph?"
"Seems so. Harter, Randolph and Collins represent the interests of Douglas and Adrienne Berkley, as
well as those of Jonathan and Gordon Mallory."
Taylor felt her stomach tighten. "Did Mr. Randolph give you any details about this meeting?"
"Only that it concerns the partnership Gordon Mallory had formed with the group of investors who
died in the boating accident. Horace would like us to be at his office on January thirteenth at four
o'clock. Can you make it?"
She glanced at her calendar. School was over at a quarter to three. Getting over to Park by four would
be no problem. "Yes, I can make it."
"Excellent. I'll meet you in the lobby at ten of four."
"I'll be there."
CHAPTER 5
JANUARY 13
4:20 P.M.
HARTER, RANDOLPH & COLLINS
270 PARK AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY
The offices of Harter, Randolph & Collins looked like a nineteenth-century English gentlemen's club—heavy wood, expensive leather, with an elite, old-world masculine feel from reception area
to law library.
After a fifteen-minute wait, Taylor and Joseph were ushered into the "small" conference room—which was so big it made one wonder what the "large" conference room looked like—by a sober-faced woman of middle years.
Horace Randolph took over from there. A distinguished, gray-haired gentleman with that senior-partner air, he walked over to the threshold to greet them, to apologize for the delay, and to escort them over to the walnut table.
Two other attendees sat there—one man, one woman. The woman looked trim and efficient. Her back was ramrod straight, her hands were poised above her laptop, and she'd set up a small cassette recorder
in front of her. Mr. Randolph's assistant, obviously.
The man was another matter entirely.
He was striking. He wasn't classically handsome, but he was very earthy and very male—not James
Bond male, but ski-slope, camping-in-the-woods male. It was odd, given how at ease he looked in his Brooks Brothers suit. Maybe it was his features. Patrician as they were, they were still winter-tanned. He'd definitely spent time in the sun recently—golden highlights were threaded through his jet-black hair. His eyes could pin you to the wall. They were an intense midnight blue, bold and penetrating. As for his age, he was decades younger than Horace Randolph—maybe in his midthirties—but he had the same air of innate self-assurance.
He was tall, too, Taylor noted as he rose to greet her. Over six feet.
Brooks Brothers meets L.L. Bean. An interesting combo.
"Ms. Halstead, this is Reed Weston, one of our attorneys," Mr. Randolph explained. "He's going to sit
in on this meeting. Joseph, you two know each other."
"Of course. Nice to see you, Reed." Joseph looked vaguely surprised, but not put out.
"You, too." Reed's gaze flickered over Taylor in instinctive male assessment, and he extended his hand. "Ms. Halstead. It's a pleasure."
"Mr. Weston," she acknowledged, meeting his handshake. She turned to Horace Randolph, her shoulders lifting in a puzzled shrug. "May I ask what this meeting's about? Specifically, I mean. Joseph tells me it concerns my cousin's estate."
"It does. Please, have a seat." Mr. Randolph gestured at the chair directly across the table from Reed Weston.
She complied. Joseph sat down beside her, stacking his file neatly in front of him.
Horace Randolph took the chair across from Joseph, interlacing his fingers on the conference table. "As you know, we represent the estate of Gordon Mallory. As you also know, Mr. Mallory's company
formed a partnership with a group of investors, all of whom died in that tragic boating accident last September. Your cousin Stephanie was one of those investors. Given that she and all her co-investors
/> are now deceased, the executor of Mr. Mallory's estate, Douglas Berkley, has determined that continuing the partnership no longer makes sense."
"I see." Taylor was intrigued. Joseph had informed her that Douglas Berkley was the executor; the will was a matter of public record, along with all the other papers filed for probate. But his decision to
dissolve the partnership—now, that was interesting. "Go on."
Mr. Randolph leaned forward, his gaze steady as he studied her reaction. "In order to expedite the dissolution, Mr. Berkley is offering to purchase each investor's partnership interest, including any appreciation over and above the initial investment. If that's agreeable ..." He beckoned to his assistant, who handed him a document. "This is a simple sales contract. It says in legalese what I've just explained. In short, our firm is authorized to give you a check for the full value of your cousin's investment. You just have to sign the contract and we can put this matter to rest." He slid the form across the table to Joseph.