You’ve Been Warned

Chapter 19

I JOLT UP from MY BED midscream, but I’m holding it inside because I don’t want to explain myself to Mrs. Rosencrantz again. I’m soaking in sweat as tears race down my cheeks, the images still burning in my mind.

From the dream… which feels so incredibly real.

I’ve had it again, the exact same one. I don’t believe this!

It’s the next morning, but that’s all that’s changed. I even hear the music, that same song playing in my head. A familiar tune, though I still can’t put a name to it.

And the smell of something burning is present too. Just like at the Fálcon. What is that smell?

Swinging both feet out of bed, I take a second to wipe my eyes dry. I feel miserable and drained. Not even the sight of my beautiful new bracelet curled up on the nightstand can raise my spirits.

It isn’t as if I’ve never had a recurring dream before. I’ve had plenty – only they’re the ones you read and hear about, the anxiety dreams apparently everyone shares, like being naked in public or showing up unprepared for the big college exam.

This one is different.

This dream seems to be all mine, nobody else’s. The Fálcon Hotel. Why there of all places? Four dead people. Who were they and how did they die?

I check my alarm clock. Like yesterday, it’s a few minutes before six. I can sleep a little more if I want to. Yeah, right. As if I really want to invite the dream to come back.

Dragging myself to the bathroom, I immediately make the mistake of looking in the mirror. Ouch. This could be worse than yesterday. Staring back at me could easily be the “before” picture of a face-lift.

Hey, at least I’ve got hot water today.

With the shower on full blast, I crank my Wet Tunes, the hope being that I can drown out one song in my head with another. Better yet, maybe they’ll play the same song, so I can hear the lyrics and figure out what it is.

Somehow, I don’t imagine myself being that lucky.

The shower does feel good, though, so I stay in there for a while. As the water cascades over my head, I begin to relax. I’ve got the radio tuned to WFUV, the college radio station out of Fordham, and they’re playing “Alison” by Elvis Costello, one of my favorites.

Before I know it – and just as I hoped – it’s the only thing I hear between my ears.

That is, until the song ends and some guy comes on reading the news.

I whip back my head from the shower spray. I could swear he said something about a tragedy at the Fálcon Hotel.

But that’s not what has me shaking like a leaf as I try to towel myself dry.

The radio newsman didn’t say it happened yesterday.

He said it happened this morning.

Thirty minutes later, Michael hasn’t called, but I’m heading out the door of my place. I turn my key to double-lock it. And -

“Ms. Burns? Ms. Burns?”

Not again. It’s way too early to face the Wicked Witch on Nine. I turn – and it’s even worse than I thought. Mrs. Rosencrantz has brought a bald old man, who towers over her despite his being no more than five-foot-five, six tops.

“You were screaming and screaming,” she practically screams in my face. “You woke up my Herbert. He heard it. Ask him, Ms. Burns.”

I don’t ask Herbert. I scurry away. I don’t even use the elevator; I take the stairs. Hurry!

Chapter 20

EVEN BY MANHATTAN STANDARDS, I’m walking incredibly fast a few minutes later. People are parting for me left and right. I’m a sidewalk Moses.

Next stop, the Fálcon Hotel. Probably the last place in the universe I want to visit. But I have to go there.

Sure, a cab would be quicker. But I’d prefer not to freak out while trapped in a moving vehicle.

No wonder I’m thinking again about my ex-shrink, Dr. Corey. While puffing away on his pretentious pipe, he would espouse these little self-help mantras. Things like “Hang tough!” and “Face your fear!” and “You have to take responsibility for your own life.”

Back then I thought they were all pretty silly, clichés – not unlike a psychiatrist who smokes a pipe.

Yet here they are, sticking in my head, a blast from the past. And they actually seem to be working a little.

I pick up the pace. Only a few more blocks to go.

I can feel the undertow grabbing hold now, sucking me in. Why am I so drawn to this hotel? Well, I happen to know the answer to that one, but it’s a secret I’m taking to my grave. The secret of the Fálcon.

Reaching to my side, I pat my shoulder bag for the outline of my camera. I know it’s there; I checked as always before exiting my apartment, but I’m leaving nothing to chance.

The speed walking breaks into a jog as I cross over Park Avenue at 68th Street. Up ahead, around the corner on Madison, is the Fálcon.

My heart starts to pummel my chest, and I can feel the veins in my neck throbbing.

You can do this, Kris. Nobody is going to solve this but you.

I’m steps away from the corner. Do I hear a crowd still gathered? Is that a siren? There’s only one way to find out.

But my feet have other ideas.

I stop shy of the corner, fighting the undertow and giving in to my fear. I’m afraid to look.

Don’t be such a wimp!

That’s not exactly one of Dr. Corey’s mantras, but it does the trick just the same. Taking a deep breath and balling my fists, I push around the corner and stare.

At absolutely nothing.

What I see is a typical New York street scene outside the Fálcon – people coming and going, cars and cabs sputtering along in front of the hotel’s bright red awning. It’s as if nothing happened.

Duh. What was I thinking?

Obviously I misheard the guy on the radio. I was under the shower, after all. Too much water in the ears.

That has to be it.

I reach for my camera. These won’t be my most inspired pictures, but they may be among my most satisfying. See, Kris, you’re not as crazy as you thought.

And after clicking away, I’ll go inside the hotel and ask the front desk what happenedyesterday. I’ll get the story, the scoop, the truth. Then I’ll put this whole bizarre thing behind me.

I lift the camera to my eye, my hand reaching to focus. I’m twisting the lens clockwise when I feel someone touch my shoulder.

I freeze.

Like a picture.

Click!

Then -crash!

The camera slips from my grasp, falling to the pavement.

Chapter 21

DAMN IT TO HELL! I stoop to pick up the Leica. Still in one piece, but the lens shattered on impact.

Then I spin around – and it’s his eyes I see first, the same intense stare as yesterday. It’s that detective, the thin older man who smells of aftershave and tobacco and has that look that says “I know you did something.”

He stands there, dressed in what appears to be the same dark gray suit, as I try to catch my breath. He says nothing – not even “Sorry I startled you.” Instead, he seems to be suppressing a smile. What, this is funny to you?

Suddenly, I don’t care how foolish I might look to him.

“Do you always sneak up and scare the hell out of people?” I ask him angrily. “You have some nerve.”

“I was hardly sneaking,” he says.

I watch as he pulls out a pack of Marlboros, shaking a cigarette loose. His hands are huge, knotted and gnarled. This guy works for a living.

“So, what brings you here?” he asks, lighting up, then inhaling deeply, enjoying it. “Or should I say, what brings you back here?”

It’s a simple question, certainly not unexpected given the circumstances. Still, I immediately get this vibe from him. He isn’t so much asking as he is interrogating.

“I’m on my way to work,” I answer. “This is the route I take every day. Most days.”

He exhales a thin stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth. “You want one?” he asks, extending the pack.

“No, thanks.”

“You sure?”

“I don’t smoke,” I say.

“You used to, though.”

“What makes you think that?”

“The way you’re looking at the cigarette,” he says. “Desire is an easy read with people – especially with the things we know we shouldn’t do. I’m a detective. Homicide.”

He’s right. I used to smoke. More than a pack a day, in fact. I started after I moved to New York. Not that I’m about to admit it and give him the satisfaction.

He takes another long drag and continues to stare at me. “Of course, there are so many things that can kill you in this city, what’s one more?”

It’s the perfect opening to ask him what happened – who were the people in the hotel and how did they die? But again there’s that vibe. Is he trying to get me to talk about it? If so, why? What could I know about four strangers?

“What brings you back here?” I ask instead.

And like that, he grins. Not unpleasantly, and he seems more human. “Sometimes the bad guy is dumb enough to return to the scene of the crime,” he says. “Or bad girl, as the case may be.”

So much for that vibe being just a vibe.

“What did you say your name was again?” he asks.

“I didn’t.”

He reaches into his jacket. Out come a ballpoint pen and a notepad. “Any time you’re ready,” he says, poised to write.

“Are you interrogating me?”

“No, I’m just asking for your name.”

“It’s Kristin Burns,” I quickly answer. “And yours?”

He stares at me. Those eyes.

“Delmonico,” he says. “Detective Frank Delmonico.”

He reaches into his jacket again and hands me his card. I don’t look at it. On purpose. Instead, I glance at my watch.

“Listen, I’m sorry to cut this short,” I say, “but I’m afraid I’m going to be late for work.”

It sounds like such a line, and for the most part it is. Then again, this guy has never encountered the wrath of Penley “the Pencil” Turnbull. As much as I want to hightail it out of there, I also need to. Otherwise, Detective Frank Delmonico might be investigating another death, this time up on Fifth Avenue. Mine.

“I promise,” I say. “If we can do this later, I’ll answer any question you have. But I don’t know anything. Just tell me where we can meet.”

He snaps his notepad shut. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head,” he says. “I’ll find you. It won’t be a problem.”

Then he touches one finger to the side of his temple. “Detective, remember? Homicide.”

Chapter 22

HUFF AND PUFF, huff and puff.

But Penley isn’t waiting for me at the door when I arrive for work. I guess that’s my reward for sprinting the last few blocks up Fifth Avenue so I wouldn’t be late.

I’ve barely taken two steps into the apartment’s foyer, however, before I hear her lovely voice call out from the kitchen. “Kristin, is that you? Tell me it’s you.”

“Good morning, Penley,” I answer.

Though, like yesterday, it’s been anything but a good morning. In fact, with the repeat of the bad dream, having to see that creepy detective again, and, in between, shattering one very expensive camera lens, the morning so far has been downright awful. One of my worst ever.

I walk through the red velvet-lined dining room with its crystal-dripping chandelier and push through the swinging door of the white-on-white-on-stainless kitchen to see Penley sitting over a cup of coffee.

Huh?

Sitting next to her is Michael.

Great… just great.

This is hardly the first time the three of us have been in the same room together, but it’s the last thing I need right now. Of course, Michael’s probably getting a big kick out of it.

Or maybe not.

Actually, he doesn’t look too chipper as he glances up from his Wall Street Journal. With bleary eyes, rumpled ash-blond hair, and his body wrapped sloppily in a robe, hungover would be more like it.

“Be careful we don’t talk too loud, Kristin,” says Penley in a sarcastic whisper. “Someone here was out a little late with the boys last night.”

“You’re lucky it was the Swedes and not the Russians,” says Michael, barely above a mumble. “Otherwise, I’d still be in bed.”

“Oh, yes, how lucky for all of us,” says Penley, rolling her eyes. She actually gives me a smile, as if the two of us are sharing some kind of female-bonding moment.

Pu-lease.

Michael’s evening with the Swedes must have gone on long after he said good-night to me. Long,long after, I should think, as he’s rarely late for the office.

The only other time I saw him like this was when Penley last took the kids out to her parents in Connecticut for the night and Michael stayed in the city, claiming he had to work. The two of us snuck off to Brooklyn, grabbed a back table at a restaurant, Bonita, and drank three pitchers of sangria. We woke up the next morning – in a suite Baer Stevens keeps on Central Park South – with headaches the size of Mexico.

Penley glares at Michael. “Well, aren’t you at least going to say hello to Kristin?”

“Hello to Kristin,” he parrots, his eyes not budging from the newspaper.

Penley whacks his arm, and I do everything not to smile. In his efforts to keep her in the dark about our relationship, Michael has mastered the art of complete indifference toward me when the three of us are together. So much so that it’s comical.

Not to mention pretty smart.

Seconds later, Penley assures us that the ruse is still working. After informing me that Dakota and Sean are in their rooms, getting dressed for school, she turns to Michael as if she’s just thought of something.

“Hey, what about Kristin?” she says. She turns back to me, not waiting for Michael to respond. “I mean, I’ve never heard you talk about having a boyfriend. I assume that means you’re available. You are, right? Available?”

Available for what?

She explains, “I was telling Michael about this guy I know at my gym who was upset about his girlfriend leaving him. I think what he needs to do is start dating again as soon as possible. Would you like to meet him, Kristin? He’s cute.”

“You mean, like a blind date?” I ask.

“Call it whatever you want.”

I glance at Michael, who raises an eyebrow. His “Ignore Kristin” facade looks to be crumbling at the prospect of my going out with another guy who is “cute.” Nonetheless, there’s not much he can do or say at that moment, and we both know it.

“Gee, Penley, I don’t know,” I hedge.

She shrugs. “What’s there to know? Unless, of course, you’re gay – which is nothing to be ashamed of, mind you. You’re not a lesbian, are you, Kristin? You can tell me.”

I shake my head, utterly speechless.

“Oh, goody, it’s settled, then!” says Penley, over the moon. “His name is Stephen. I’ll tell him all about you and we’ll set something up. He is a hunk, Kristin.”

Gee, I can’t wait.

Chapter 23

PENLEY SURE KNOWS how to clear a room.

She saunters away to organize a guest list for her latest charity benefit. This one, gag me, is for the Elementary Etiquette Society and involves Dakota and Sean, poor kids. “Then it’s off to the gym.”

Michael leaves to take a shower and get changed – finally -for work.

And I go to grab the kids for breakfast.

“Good morning, princess,” I say, peeking my head into Dakota’s pink-and-lace room to see her sitting on the edge of her canopy bed, reading The Trumpet of the Swan.

She looks up and gives me one of her heart-melting smiles. “Good morning, Miss Kristin.”

“All dressed?” I ask.

Dakota glances down, frowning at her Preston Academy uniform. It’s an adorable green-and-blue plaid skirt with a simple white top, but for a young girl who has to wear it every day, it might as well be a burlap bag.

“Yes,” she groans, “I’m dressed.”

“Meet me in the kitchen, okay? I’m going to check on Sean.”

She holds up the book. “I’ll be there in one more page.”

I continue down the hall, marveling at how much Dakota loves to read. So will Sean, I bet, as soon as he learns how, which we’re working on. Besides being loved, is there anything better for a child? I doubt it.

Arriving at Sean’s doorway, I see him sitting on the floor, immersed in a sea of Legos. Last month, all he built was rocket ships. This month, it’s nothing but cars, albeit with “super-duper special powers.”

“What does that one do?” I ask.

Sean turns to me, his small face beaming. “Hi, Miss Kristin!” He presents his latest contraption in the palm of his little hand. “This one shoots lasers and missiles and can bust through anything. It can also go under water.”

“That’s very cool, Sean.” You’re very cool, m’boy.

“Oh, and it also makes ice cream!”

Naturally.

I look him over, head to toe, making sure he’s properly, or ratherprep -erly, dressed. My eyes stop abruptly on his bare feet. This will not do at the Academy.

“Where are your socks, Sean?”

“I don’t know. No idea. I want to wear my Jimmy Neutrons, but I can’t find them.”

“Maria might have left them in the laundry room. I’ll go check, sweetheart.”

I head for the very back of the apartment, past a huge storage closet, and flip on the light for the laundry room. Sure enough, I see Sean’s Jimmy Neutron socks – named for the Nickelodeon cartoon character with the huge head and the pompadour – sitting on top of the dryer.

As I reach for them, I hear a mischievous whisper over my shoulder.

“Want to join the Maytag club?”

Chapter 24

I TURN AROUND to see Michael grinning from ear to ear. I shoot him a dubious look and whisper back, “Maytag club?”

“Yeah, it’s like the mile-high club, only with a spin cycle.”

“Very funny.”

“I’m serious,” he says. He’s still in his robe, though it’s now open down the front. “I want you right here.”

That gets him the mother of all dubious looks from me. “Sure, and when Penley wanders in, I suppose you’ll be able to explain everything.”

He laughs. “This is the laundry room, Kris. It’s the last place Penley would ever wander into.”

He has a point there.

Still.

“Go and take your shower,” I say, and push him away. “Better make it a cold one, buster. Thanks for thinking of me, though.”

Instead of leaving, Michael takes me in his arms and begins to gently kiss the curve of my neck. He knows I like this a lot. Usually.

I stand there, not giving in. “What happened to your hangover?” I ask.

“All of a sudden I feel a lot better.”

I glance down. “I can tell.”

He pulls me closer, his lips moving toward mine. Michael has beautiful, sensuous lips that are nearly impossible to resist.

But I’m still not giving in. “This is about Penley setting me up with that guy, isn’t it? Thecute guy. Stephen.”

“Not at all.” He leans back, gazing into my eyes. “You’re not really going to go out with him, though, are you?”

“I knew it – you’re jealous!”

“Okay, maybe a little. She is such a bitch. Phony, condescending, sadistic.”

His hand glides down my stomach. He reaches into my pants, his fingers disappearing between my legs.

Damn. There’s nothing more sexy to me than a very confident man displaying a dash of vulnerability.

I start to give in a little. We’ve never done anything like this in the apartment. Not even the couple of times we’ve been here alone.

“Michael,” I say, returning his kisses. “The children.”

“They’re fine.”

Not if they see this.

I know this is wrong, that I should stop. This is so bad.

But it feels so good. And Penley won’t come in here.

I undo Michael’s robe all the way and stroke him with my hand. It’s as if I’ve lit a fuse. He’s very hard and very large.

Quickly, powerfully, he grabs my shoulders, spinning me around – as promised. Down go my pants and my underwear.

I reach and grip the back of the washer, the metal cold against my bare thighs. He enters me amid a swell of goose bumps, and after only a few swift thrusts I feel myself ready to explode.

“Miss Kristin, where are you?”

Sean’s little voice filters in from down the hallway. Michael and I both freeze in place.

“Did you find my Jimmy Neutron socks?” he calls out.

“Tell him you’ll be right there,” whispers Michael, slowly beginning to thrust again.

Feeling every inch of him inside me, I can barely speak. The moment couldn’t be more dangerous.

Or more of a turn-on.

The socks are still in my hand, and I squeeze them tight as my body tenses, quivering.

“Miss Kristin?” Sean calls out again. “Are you there?”

Michael takes hold of my hips, thrusting faster and deeper, faster and deeper. My head whips back, my toes curl, and then my entire body completely lets go.

“I’m coming!”