Page 97 of Kill For Me Kill For You
‘You’ve been served, lady,’ said the man before turning towards the elevator.
Every ounce of breath left Amanda’s body. It was almost as if she’d been tensing herself in preparation for a physical blow. Her shoulders fell, the ache in her jaw subsided, her body uncoiled.
She stepped back into her apartment, shut the door and tore open the envelope.
It was Crone’s lawsuit. His lawyers had filed it in court. Amanda had not answered any of their letters. They were now taking her to court for damages. They’d waited until Thanksgiving morning to serve the papers – knowing that it would be especially upsetting to get them today.
She almost laughed.
Amanda threw the papers on the floor, picked up her bag and shut the apartment door behind her. She thought she would never see the place again. All her memories were now behind a closed door. Soon, her life would be spent behind a steel door in a prison cell.
Part of Amanda accepted that fate. But she would be damned if she would be spending that time alone. She went back out on the street, made sure Farrow’s vehicle wasn’t around, just in case he’d made a loop of the block. It would be unwise to use her cell phone to make the next call. No point in making a road map for the cops. Instead, she found a payphone across the street and used it to call Billy.
‘Hey, I know you were going to call me when you had something, but I need to see you. Whatever we’re doing to find Ruth we have to do it faster. I think the cops are looking for me. I’m leaving my apartment; I can’t stay here.’
‘Oh no, oh God. Amanda, I’m so sorry. Look, let me know where you are and I’ll come pick you up.’
‘I need a place to stay,’ she said.
‘You can stay with me. It’s fine. I’m just emailing my PI back. A lot has happened this morning. Good and bad,’ said Billy. ‘My PI contacted me to say there is nothing, anywhere, on Ruth Gelman.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean she doesn’t have a bank account, she doesn’t have a credit card, there’s no record of a current address, she’s not registered with the usual utilities, no record of a cell phone in her name . . .’
‘Jesus Christ, I thought we were getting somewhere,’ said Amanda.
‘She’s using fake identities, so she can’t be tracked. She dumps one ID then uses another. Unless we know which ID she’s using right now, there’s no way to find her.’
Amanda bit down, hard, grinding her teeth.
‘But I think there’s someone who might be able to help us find her,’ said Billy.
‘Who?’
‘I’ve been talking to Dr. Marin at Kirby Psychiatric Center. He was the one who treated Ruth when she was inside. I told him I’d met Ruth and I believed she was experiencing hallucinations, delusions and accusing men of being her attacker.’
Smart, thought Amanda. ‘What did he say?’
‘He wants to evaluate her, and if she’s become a danger to herself, or others, he can take her back into hospital. So at least we know what to do when we find her. But, more than that, Marin is helping set up a visit with someone tomorrow. Someone who might know how Ruth got those fake identities.’
‘Who is it, and why can’t we talk to him today?’
‘He’s in prison. Marin is going to help smooth things to get an urgent visit, but it can’t be today. It’ll have to be tomorrow. The man we need to talk to is Scott Gelman. Ruth’s husband.’
55
Farrow
After he’d left Amanda’s building, Farrow drove back to the precinct. The Thanksgiving Day shift varied. Sometimes it was busy – usually domestics. Sometimes it was quiet. Today was one of the quiet days. He had peace to think.
He called the hospital and they said Quinn hadn’t improved. The bleeding and trauma to the chest had caused a cardiac arrest. He was deteriorating and remained unconscious.
Farrow glanced at the stack of files below his desk. All unsolved. Most cops kept their working files in the cabinets. When a case could not be closed, after a while, it got iced. It was supposed to be put away, marked as unsolved and relegated to a box in the basement. If new information came up, the case could be thawed and re-opened. Few, if any, were ever resurrected.
The stack below his desk all should’ve had a layer of ice on them. Instead, they had been saved from the freezing basement, and allowed to gather a little dust. Farrow could not bear to put them away. He had few unsolved for a veteran cop. Part of it was luck, maybe. But part of it was due to his stubbornness and tenacity.
At the top of that pile was a Manila folder. Actually, three Manila folders, held together with purple string. At some stage, probably more than five years ago, some joker in the homicide division had drawn a pair of blue eyes on top of the file in magic marker. Those eyes stared back at Farrow from below the desk.
