Call After Midnight

“Maybe he didn’t have time. Maybe he was interrupted….” Rising, he turned and looked at her. “You look shook up. Are you all right?”

“I’m just—just bewildered.”

He touched her hand; his fingers felt hot against hers. “You’re also freezing. You’d better get out of those wet clothes.”

“I’m fine, Mr. O’Hara. Really.”

“Come on. Off with the coat.” He insisted. “And sit down while I make a few calls.”

Something about his tone seemed to leave Sarah no choice but to obey. She let him tug off her coat, then sat on the couch and watched numbly as he reached for the telephone. Suddenly she felt as though she’d lost control of her actions. As though, just by walking into her apartment, Nick O’Hara had taken over her life. Almost as an act of protest, she rose and headed for the kitchen.

“Sarah?”

“I’m going to make a pot of tea.”

“Look, don’t go to any trouble—”

“It’s no trouble. We could both use a cup, I think.”

From the kitchen doorway, she saw him dial his call. As she put the kettle on, she heard him say, “Hello? Tim Greenstein, please. This is Nick O’Hara calling…. Yes, I’ll hold.”

The next pause seemed to last forever. Nick began to pace back and forth, like an animal in a cage, first pulling off his overcoat, then loosening his tie. His agitation made him entirely out of place in her small, tidy living room.

“Shouldn’t you call the police?” she asked.

“That’s next on the list. First I’d like an informal chat with the bureau. If I can just get through the damned lines.”

“The bureau? You mean the FBI? But why?”

“There’s something about all this that bugs me….”

His words were lost when the kettle abruptly whistled. Sarah filled the teapot and carried the tray out to the living room, where Nick was still waiting on the phone.

“Dammit,” he muttered to himself. “Where the hell are you, Greenstein?”

“Tea, Mr. O’Hara?”

“Hmm?” He turned and saw the cup she held out to him. “Yeah. Thanks.”

She sat down, holding a cup and saucer on her lap. “Does Mr. Greenstein work for the FBI?”

“No. But he has a friend who—hello? Tim? It’s about time! Don’t you answer your calls anymore?”

In the silence that followed, Nick’s face and the way he stood, with his shoulders squared and his back rigid, told Sarah that something was wrong. He was livid. The loud clatter of his teacup on the saucer made her jump.

“How the hell did Ambrose get wind of it?” he snapped into the receiver, turning away from Sarah.

Another silence. She stared at his back, wondering what kind of catastrophe had made Nick O’Hara so angry. Up until now she’d thought of him as a man completely in control of his emotions. No longer. His anger surprised her, yet somehow it also reassured her that he was human.

“Okay,” he said into the phone. “I’ll be there in half an hour. Look, Tim, something else has come up. Someone’s broken into Sarah’s apartment. No, nothing’s been touched. Can you get me the number of this FBI friend? I want to— Yeah, I’m sorry I got you into this, but…” He turned and gave Sarah a harassed look. “Okay! Half an hour. My trip to the woodshed. Meet you in Ambrose’s office.” He hung up with a scowl.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“So end eight glorious years with the State Department,” he muttered, furiously snatching up his overcoat and walking toward the door. “I’ve gotta go. Look, you’ve still got the chain. Use it. Better yet, stay with your friend tonight. And call the police. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

She followed him into the hallway. “But Mr. O’Hara—”

“Later!” he called over his shoulder as he stalked away. She heard his footsteps echo in the stairwell, and moments later the lobby door slammed shut.

She closed the door and slid the chain in place, then slowly gazed around the room. Her stack of Advances in Microbiology lay on the coffee table. A vase of peonies dropped petals onto the bookshelf. Everything was as it should be.

No, not quite. Something was different. If she could just put her finger on it…

She was halfway across the room when it suddenly struck her—there was an empty space on the bookshelf. Her wedding picture was gone.

A cry of anger welled up in her throat. For the first time since she’d returned to the apartment, she felt a sense of violation, of fury that someone had invaded her house. It had only been a photograph, a pair of happy faces beaming at a camera, yet it meant more to her than anything else she owned. The picture had been all she had left of Geoffrey. Even if her marriage had been mere illusion, she never wanted to forget how she had loved him. Of all the things in her apartment, why would anyone steal a photograph?

Her heart skipped a beat as the phone rang. It was probably Abby, calling as promised. She picked up the receiver.

The first sound she heard was the hiss of a long-distance connection. Sarah froze. For some reason she found herself staring at the empty shelf, at the spot where the photograph should have been.

“Hello?” she said.

“Come to me, Sarah. I love you.”

A scream caught in her throat. The room was spinning wildly, and she reached out for support. The receiver slipped from her fingers and thudded on the carpet. This is impossible! she thought. Geoffrey is dead....

She scrambled on the floor for the receiver, scrambled to hear the voice of what could only be a ghost.

“Hello? Hello? Geoffrey!” she screamed.

The long-distance hiss was gone. There was only silence and then, a few seconds later, the hum of the dial tone.

But she had heard enough. Everything that had happened in the past two weeks faded away as if it were a nightmare remembered in the light of day. None of it had been real. The voice she’d just heard, the voice she knew so well—that was real.

Geoffrey was alive.

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_337ec9c4-6521-5774-acf4-cbbacf177c18)

“YOU’VE HAD IT, O’Hara!” Charles Ambrose stood outside the closed door of his office and looked pointedly at his watch. “And you’re twenty minutes late!”

Unperturbed, Nick hung up his coat and said, “Sorry. I couldn’t help it. The rain had us backed up for—”

“Do you know who just happens to be waiting in my office right now? I mean, do you have any idea?”

“No. Who?”

“Some son of a—” Ambrose abruptly lowered his voice. “The CIA, that’s who! A guy named Van Dam. This morning he calls me up wanting to know about the Fontaine case. What’s the Fontaine case, I ask. He had to tell me what’s going on in my own department! For God’s sake, O’Hara! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”