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28
EMMA’S HEART JERKS TO A STOP. COULD THE NYPD HAVEcome to Tom’s office to arrest him? Has Webster investigated the Stowe weekend, too, and discovered he was missing for a whole night?
Frantic, she returns the call. “The police?” she says as soon as Addison picks up. “They’re at Halliday?”
“Well, at least they were ten minutes ago when I drove by,” Addison tells her, sounding worried. “There were several vehicles near the back side of the building and a whole bunch of people in uniform. I hope Tom’s okay.”
“I’m sure he is,” Emma says, recalling his text. “He was in Chicago on business today and coming straight home from the airport. But I so appreciate you alerting me.”
“I was just concerned. After—”
“Thank you, Addison, but I really should go.”
Emma chucks the phone back into her purse. After firing up the engine, she tears out of the parking lot, crosses the Saugatuck River, and heads up Imperial Avenue into themain part of Westport. Halliday Advertising isn’t far now, but two blocks away, she catches a red light, one of the interminably long ones that tonight makes her want to lean on her horn and let the sound blare into the night.
As she gets near enough to see the back of the building in which Halliday leases two floors, her panic mushrooms. The entire parking lot has been cordoned off with yellow caution tape, and there are at least seven or eight official-looking vehicles parked haphazardly along the curb, as if their drivers sprang out with the motors still running. Among them is a Winnebago-like vehicle and five or six police cruisers.
This can’t be about Tom, though, she tells herself. Not only did he say he was going to work from home, but the only police vehicles she sees are either the local cruisers that she recognizes from Westport or Connecticut state police cars. It seems unlikely that the job of arresting a suspect in a Manhattan murder would be delegated to local police.
Emma slows the car and flicks her eyes back and forth between the street ahead and the chaotic scene on her right. There are twenty or thirty people standing outside the tape in small groups, perhaps a mix of rubberneckers and local media, and inside the artificially lit cordoned-off area, at least a dozen cops and emergency workers milling around like patrons on the deck outside a bar, though they don’t look like they’re having any fun.
And—oh god—an ambulance on the other side of the tape, too.
Behind her a driver toots his horn, and Emma has to speed up. Farther up the block, she spots the outdoor furniture store where she and Tom bought their patio table, parksbehind it, and practically rockets from her car. Maybe this isn’t about Tom, but something has clearly gone wrong right outside his building and she has to know what it is.
She takes off at a jog, with her purse banging against her hip and her shoes chafing against the heels of her feet. It’s possible, she realizes, that there’s been a collision in the street at the rear of the building and one of the cars jumped the curb into the parking lot, causing an injury and even some property damage.
By the time she’s reached the building, she’s out of breath and has a stitch in her side. She slows to a fast walk and makes her way toward a bunch of stylishly dressed people around her age talking to a thirtysomething patrol cop.
“Can’t you tell us what’s going on?” a young woman presses the officer.
“You can read about it tomorrow on Twitter, okay?” he tells her.
“Please, we live around here, and we need to know. Is someone really dead?”
Dead?
“I’m not at liberty to say,” the cop replies. “Why don’t you move along and let the police do their job.”
Begrudgingly, they do as he asks. As soon as they’ve departed and the cop turns his back, Emma inches forward to get a decent view of the scene. Besides the patrol cops, there are what seem to be police in plain clothes, as well as at least three people in white Tyvek suits and silver booties over their shoes.
Her first instinct, that someone’s come to arrest Tom, is definitely wrong. Thank god for that. But sadly, it seemssomeone from the town might have lost his or her life, possibly an employee at Halliday or one of the other firms in the building.Has Tom been called at home and alerted to what’s going on?she wonders. What if he decided to go into the office after all, and something’s happened tohim? She has to find out.
As Emma fishes through her purse for her phone to call Tom, she continues to move, searching with her eyes and straining to overhear snippets of conversation from the huddles of police. Her eyes are suddenly drawn to the back of a man on her side of the caution tape, his silver hair gleaming in the artificial light. As if sensing her gaze, he spins around.
“Tom!” she exclaims in total surprise. For a split second she’s flooded with relief that he’s okay.
“Emma. What are you doing here?” he says, advancing and pulling her into a tight embrace, then releasing her but holding on to one arm. He’s dressed super casually in jeans and a cotton Henley, indicating he’s probably rushed over from the house.
“Someone alerted me as I was coming from the station. What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure yet. I was at home and Dan called to say he’d heard there was a ton of police activity and that I should get down here. I’ve told a patrol cop my company leases half the building and I need to speak to one of the detectives, but that was five minutes ago, and I haven’t seen her since.”
Still grasping her arm, Tom pivots to scan the parking lot, and instinctively Emma trails his gaze. Within the cordoned-off area, the police in one of the clusters shift slightly, likepieces of a kaleidoscope, and before they can rearrange themselves, Emma catches a flash of white on the ground. Her stomach clenches. She’s seen enough procedural TV shows to know that it’s the kind of cloth they drape over a dead body. Tom’s hold on her arm tightens a little and she knows he’s seen it, too.
“Where’s Brittany?” she asks, her voice choked.
“Home, upstairs in her room.”
