Single white female

32

THE next morning, in her room at the Willmont, Allie counted her money. She still had enough to meet her needs for a while, but even living as she was, Manhattan proved expensive. It was a city where money talked, growled, and laughed, and would step over you for dead. Even the air was expensive; a doctor would tell you that. Trading the computer for cash had been no problem; deal enough with computers and computer people, and you learn where hard and software might be bought and sold cheap and without questions. But stolen jewelry was another matter. She had no idea where to exchange it for cash.

From the brown envelope she'd stuck behind the bottom dresser drawer, she got out one of Mayfair's gold chains, a thick, eighteen-inch one lettered 14 KARATE on the clasp. There was also an M engraved there; Allie assumed that was merchandise or manufacturing coding and not Mayfair's monogram. And even if it was a monogram, so what? Plenty of people whose last names began with M. She hefted the tangled chain in her hand, closing her eyes as if that would heighten her sensitivity. It was surprisingly heavy and should be worth more than the others.

She returned the envelope to its hiding place behind the drawer. Then she slipped into her jacket, dropped the chain in a pocket, and left the hotel. Eyes in the lobby followed her, as if the chain were visible and everyone knew it wasn't hers. She almost laughed. A murderer worried about being branded a thief.

Selling the gold chain was easier than she'd imagined. She'd walked down Forty-seventh Street between Fifth and Sixth, the diamond district. Here, during the day, millions of dollars' worth of diamonds in all kinds of settings were displayed like mere baubles.

Halfway down the block, Allie had gone into a small shopping arcade lined with tiny shops, chosen the smallest, and told the man behind the counter she wanted to sell her husband's gold chain. He was a tiny man with a black beard and had a skullcap perched on the back of his head like a dark bald spot. He studied Allie for a few seconds, then examined the chain briefly with the jeweler's loop that was dangling horn a red string around his neck. He held the chain up to the light, then let it coil gently down into the small metal cradle of a scale.

In a thick Yiddish accent he said, "I can give you five hundred dollars, no more."

Allie didn't want to seem eager. "Can't you make it seven hundred?"

The man shrugged. "So I'll make it five-fifty. And I mean no more. Really. Final. Finis. Check the price of gold, figure my profit margin, you'll see that's more than fair." "Cash?"

The man played the chain like liquid through his fingers, thinking about that. Though he was small, he had long, elegant fingers. "Sure, cash," he said. He handed the chain back to Allie, said, "Wait here," and disappeared beyond a thick hanging curtain that soaked up light like velvet.

He came back a few minutes later with eleven fifty-dollar bills. No receipt was offered or requested. There was no paperwork. This was a simple transaction between buyer and seller, what had made the world work for centuries.

"If you're in possession of any other such items, bring them in," he said, smiling. He'd chosen his words carefully, hadn't said "If you own" or "If you have." "If you're in possession of," was what he'd told her. As if it didn't matter whether she was the legal owner. She wondered if anyone in the world was actually honest. Allie smiled back, nodded, and left the shop.

Sunday morning she heard about a theft in the Willmont; an old man's cash from his Social Security check had been stolen when he was out of his room. She wondered if she should keep the rest of Mayfair's jewelry where it was hidden behind the drawer.

She decided the smart thing would be to sell all of it as soon as possible where she'd sold the gold chain, then keep the money with her.

She was there a few minutes after the shop opened Monday morning. The same man, wearing his yarmulke skullcap, was behind the counter, methodically setting out velvet-lined display cases glittering with diamonds. Allie smiled at him. "Remember me?"

He tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. "Ah, sure, the gold chain. 1 trust you spent the money well."

"I did, but I could use more to spend just as well. I brought some other jewelry. Will you look at it? Make an offer?"

"Of course. That's my business. Just let me finish setting out these displays."

While Allie waited, he made several more trips to the room behind the curtain and emerged with diamond jewelry on display trays.

He held up a long forefinger, as if to say "One more" and spent several minutes behind the curtain.

Allie thought he might have forgotten her, but finally he emerged with another black velvet case and placed it in the display window. He stepped back and brushed his hands together briskly, as if slapping dust from them after hard physical work. Maybe he'd been doing heavy construction behind the curtain.

"Now," he said, smiling, "let's have a look at what you've brought me."

Allie scooped the jewelry from her windbreaker pocket and laid it on the glass-topped counter. All of it. More gold chains, the rings, gold-link bracelet, wristwatch. All tangled together from being jostled in her pocket as she walked.

"Ah," the jewelry merchant said. He studied the rings and set them aside, then he sorted through the twists and kinks of the remaining intertwined jewelry. "Interesting. The watch runs?" "My husband says it keeps perfect time."

"Of course. Or you wouldn't be selling it." He slowly and carefully lifted and examined each piece, then set it gently in the scale's basket, made notations on a folded sheet of white paper. The last piece, the gold bracelet, he lifted and then placed back on the counter. He said, "I'm sorry, miss."

Allie was confused. "Sorry? You don't want to buy?" Then she saw the man's sad dark gaze focus over her right shoulder. "I'm sorry, too," a deep and gentle voice said.

She whirled and was looking at Sergeant Kennedy. A somber but alert uniformed patrolman stood next to him. Two more blue uniforms were just outside the shop's door. Two more serious, apprehensive faces, peering in through the glass at her like ritual masks. And they really were part of a ritual-the one that had been in her nightmares since the night Sam was killed.

In a rush she realized it must have been the gold chain with Mayfair's initial that had raised suspicion and drawn them here, probably photographs of her the police had circulated among shops like this. The police worked in ways that mystified civilians. And now they were actually arresting her, thinking she was Hedra. Or did they think Hedra was Allie? Did it really matter anymore? Hedra, Allie… The two personalities were finally and irrevocably linked. Merged. She was ready to accept that she was the weaker and less fortunate of the two components and would soon fade and no longer matter. Like a Siamese twin doomed from the moment of conception. The way Hedra had planned it. Allie was under arrest for murder. This was how it felt. But what was she felling? She couldn't be sure. Was this actually happening? Was it? She heard the shrill Whooop! Whooop! Whooop! of a siren in the distance, forging through congested traffic-It sounded like an exhilarated beast closing in for the kill. She was having difficulty breathing. Standing. Her legs began an uncontrollable trembling and she feared she might wet herself.

"Just relax now," Kennedy told her soothingly, smiling. "I'm going to read you your rights, dear."