The Perfect Fake Read online

  “Yes, I do. If Mr. Zurin doesn’t get his map, you and Rhonda will be living in a cardboard box—”

  “Don’t be flippant. The point is, Allison, you haven’t any idea where Fairchild is. But I understand. You’re a young woman alone in London. Tom Fairchild is attractive, in a rough way. He thinks he can walk all over you.”

  “That is so not true!” she protested. “All I am to Tom Fairchild is a bank. He knows that he won’t get anything more out of me unless he tells me exactly where he is and what he’s doing—”

  “Where is my map? What progress is being made?”

  “When he calls me, I’ll find out,” she said.

  “No, you will tell him to call me immediately. I’ll deal with this.”

  Allison laughed.

  “You think it’s funny?”

  “I think it’s hopeless. Lots of luck. What do you want me to do, go home?”

  “No, don’t go anywhere until he turns up. If he calls you, let me know about it. Use my mobile number, will you? I’m traveling.”

  She heard the sound of a disconnect. She held the phone out and smiled at it. “And how are you, sweetheart?... Oh, just great, Dad, thanks. I’m having a wonderful time in London.”

  Her quiche had gone cold. She nibbled a piece of crust and stared through the window at the clouds. “I should go home. Let him deal with it.” When Stuart had come to her apartment asking for her help, he had described horrible financial consequences if his Russian investor didn’t get the map promised to him. Allison had reluctantly said yes; her father needed her. It would be nice, she thought, if he showed appreciation for her moral sacrifice.

  She flopped down on the small sofa with her cell phone and hit the number for her father’s housekeeper. She put her bare feet on the windowsill and traced a circle on the glass with her toe.

  “Fernanda, hi. It’s Allison. I didn’t wake you, did I? How’s Othello? Is he being a good boy? Does he miss me?”

  Fernanda told her that she’d had to keep Othello locked up in her room—a little problem with Rhonda’s wretched mutt. “Yesterday he got loose, and he went into Mrs. Barlowe’s room, and Zhou-Zhou chased him. So I can’t let him out. I thought maybe to put Zhou-Zhou in the garage, but he would bark and bark. Do you know when Mrs. Barlowe might be back?”

  “I think her cruise lasts for ten days.”

  “Well...I don’t think she went on the cruise.” Fernanda told Allison that she’d seen Rhonda taking her beachwear out of her suitcase and putting her winter things inside it. Fernanda stopped, as though caught between the demands of loyalty to her employer and the guilty pleasure of gossip. She gave in, speaking in a whisper even though, except for a dog and a cat, she was the only one at home.

  “I asked Mrs. Barlowe where she was going, and she told me Hawaii, but why was she packing sweaters? I checked her closet, you know, straightening her room, and her white fox fur coat is gone and her snow boots.”

  “Maybe she went skiing,” Allison said. “They have friends in Aspen.”

  “Yes, maybe she is there.”

  “Did you tell my father?”

  “He left yesterday, and I don’t want to bother him.” “Where is he?”

  “He said New York, some business to do.”

  That was weird, she thought as she ended the call. Rhonda wasn’t on the cruise either. So where was she? Allison decided not to call Stuart about it. She didn’t want to get Fernanda in trouble. And she didn’t see what difference it made where the witch was—Hawaii or a ski lodge.

  She dropped the lid over her breakfast and went to her laptop on the desk. She had just sat down when her cell phone rang. With a sigh she walked over to the sofa and picked it up. A London exchange.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey. It’s me. I’m downstairs. Can I come up?”

  The knock sounded just as she was tossing her pajamas into the closet. She smoothed the comforter over the pillows, shook her hair back, and opened the door. She had put on wool slacks, a turtleneck top, and her shoes.

  Tom Fairchild came in, took off a camera bag, then a navy blue jacket. He removed a wool newsboy’s cap and straightened the front of his hair with his fingers. He had found time to go shopping. He had shaved. Allison gestured toward the sofa and told him to have a seat. She sat in her desk chair and crossed her legs.

  “What? You’re not happy to see me?” “After waiting twenty-four hours? Where have you been?”

  “I should’ve brought flowers,” he said.

  “Tom. Let’s not.”

  He leaned back and put a foot on his knee. New hiking boots. He took up too much space on the striped satin sofa with its delicate legs. He reached into a pocket of his cargo pants. “I did bring you something—the receipts that you asked for.”

  “How much?”

  He handed them over. “Four thousand, seven hundred and eighty-eight pounds, and change. Most of it’s for a camera and computer equipment. I paid for the clothes myself. Like the jacket? North Face. Got it on sale, a hundred pounds. The problem is, I’ve only got about four hundred pounds left on my bank card. I need more traveling money if I’m going to get to Italy.”

  “How much?”

  “Five hundred pounds should do it. Then I’ll give you those receipts, too.”

  “My father called,” she said. “He wants a progress report on the map. How’s it going?”

  “The map’s going great. I’m a busy bee.” Tom reached for the croissant on the serving cart. It had one bite missing. “Are you going to finish this? I had some pretty bad Indian food last night and not much of a breakfast.”

  “Tom, could we discuss the map? It’s extremely important to my father. It’s what he’s paying you for. Would you please tell me exactly what you’ve done, and if you’re on schedule to finish it?”

  He chewed the croissant. “Well... I’m on my way to the Maritime Museum in Greenwich to take some photos of the Corelli sea charts. They have two pretty good ones, and I want to compare the ink and the paper to the world map. Your father wrote me a letter of introduction. I called the curator, and he’ll show me around. That reminds me. I have a phone.”

  She wrote down the number when he read it off his screen. “When will you actually start on the map?” she asked.

  “I have started on the map.”

  “Where? Are you working in your hotel room? But you don’t have the antique paper yet, do you?”

  “No, I’ll pick that up in Italy.” Tom lifted the lid on her plate. “You don’t want the strawberries?”

  “Take them.”

  He popped one into his mouth, and chewed as he said, “Allison, I told you. I don’t talk about my work. How I do it, that’s my business. I told Mr. Barlowe he could have the map within two weeks, and unless something happens—like another incident with your stepbrother’s psycho friend—I’ll have it on time.”

  “We need to know where you are. Don’t think you can disappear and call me from God-knows-where in Italy asking for more money.”

  “Florence. When I’m ready to leave, I’ll tell you. Probably tomorrow, so don’t get too comfortable here at Claridge’s. I’ll take care of the travel arrangements myself because, frankly, I get nervous thinking that certain people might know where I am. No offense, but that’s how it is.” He held up her telephone. “May I use this? I need to call Miami. I’ll just leave a message. The guy I’m calling is never in the office before eight o’clock.”

  With a sigh, Allison said, “Sure. Go ahead.”

  Walking away a few paces, he put a finger to his lips for her to be quiet. He listened for a second, then wordlessly mouthed damn, before he said, “Mr. Weems! Hi! This is Tom. Tom Fairchild. You left a message with my sister for me to call. I’m out of town right now, fishing. In fact, I’m on a boat just south of Grassy Key. This is my friend’s cell phone, and the battery’s getting low, so I can’t talk long. What’s up?... Sure I did. Yeah, I signed up for that class. I think it starts in a week or two.... Well
, I don’t have his phone number with me, but as soon as I get home.... Uh-oh, you’re breaking up.” Tom crinkled one of the receipts, held the phone at a distance, and hit the disconnect button.

  Allison stared at him. “Who was that?”

  “My probation officer. Rose said he was looking for me.”

  “Oh, great. Now he has my phone number. Damn it, Tom.”

  “You’ve got caller ID. Don’t pick up.” Tom ate another of the strawberries.

  “My God! After I hear you flat-out lie to your probation officer, you expect me to believe anything you say?”

  He came back and sat on the end of the sofa nearer the desk. He looked at her awhile, his brows lifting to make lines across his forehead. His eyes were wide and green as a meadow. “If I tell you something is the truth, it is. I might not tell you everything, because I can’t, but I won’t lie to you.”

  “How do I know that? I’ve given you almost twelve thousand dollars already, and I don’t see anything for it.”

  “Look at the receipts. That’s what I’ve spent preparing to do the map, and that’s what I’m asking for. That’s the deal. In all my life, Allison, I’ve never cheated you. Never. And you know that.”

  “I could laugh. I could just roll on the floor—”

  “Never. In all the time you’ve known me, have I ever promised you, Allison Barlowe, you personally, anything that I didn’t deliver? Have I?”

  “I don’t know who you are. We haven’t seen each other in...”

  “Twelve years. A long time, but we’re the same people. Just the same. At least I am. I have never broken a promise to you, and you know it. We split up for reasons that had nothing to do with whether you could trust my word. And I’m making this promise to you now. I will finish the map. It will be good enough. It will be done on time.”

  She tossed her hair back from her face. “You should tell that to my father. He wants you to call him.”

  “I get it. He’s taking control of this, isn’t he?”

  A call to Stuart’s cell phone produced nothing. Allison left a message. “Dad, it’s me. I’m with Tom. We’re just discussing the map. It seems to be proceeding as scheduled. I’ve reviewed his receipts, and I’m going to reimburse him. Call me when you get this.” She put down the phone, praying she hadn’t screwed up past any hope of redemption.

  “Okay, then,” Tom said. “Grab your coat. Let’s take a taxi to the bank. I need to get over to the museum pretty soon.”

  “No, I can do it online.” She went to her laptop. Tom stood behind her. She swung around. “Do you mind?” She found her father’s account with Barclays, tapped in the PIN, then went to the page for transfers. She pushed her glasses a little farther up the bridge of her nose. “How much was that?”

  “Five thousand, two-eighty-eight. That includes five hundred advance on my expenses. All right?”

  “Fine.”

  “And that’s pounds.”

  “Right. Pounds.” After typing in the amount she hesitated before pressing MAKE TRANSFER. She let out a breath. “Done. Do you want to go into your account and make sure?”

  “No, that’s okay.” He picked up his camera and the jacket, then turned around to look at her again. “I don’t know why my life went the way it did. You know, the bad choices. Mistakes I made. Long sad story, I guess, but I’ve moved on. Maybe you believe that, maybe you don’t, but I am not going to screw this up. It could be the last, best chance I ever get.”

  On the way out, he picked up her red beret from the dresser. He twirled it, then sent it sailing across the room like a Frisbee. She caught it.

  “You’ve got lipstick on your front tooth,” he said.

  She waited at the window and presently saw a man in a navy blue jacket and hat moving quickly toward the intersection with Davies Street. He turned the corner and was gone. Soon Stuart would call back. She felt that Tom would follow through, but could she convince Stuart of that? She’d have to explain too much to him. Too much of the past, and how she knew Tom Fairchild’s intentions better than she could admit.

  The receipts were stacked on her desk. She couldn’t remember a receipt for his hotel. Then she thought: Of course there’s no receipt; he hadn’t checked out yet, had he? But what hotel? Allison had asked him. Hadn’t she? How had he slid past that question?

  Glancing at the number he’d given her, she called his cell phone, walking back to the window as she listened to the British brrrrp brrrrp brrrrp.

  No answer. Not even a message machine. She imagined him taking the phone out of his pocket, looking at the screen—

  “Dammit.” Then she laughed. “Jenny Gray. You’re staying with her, aren’t you?”

  Allison looked at her watch, then scrolled through her phone book for a number in Miami. After several rings she heard a woman’s voice. This is the law office of Marks and Connor. If you are calling outside regular business hours, please leave your name and number—

  “Hello, this is Allison calling from London. This message is for Miriam. I need a huge favor. Could you pull somebody’s file for me?”

  At Marks and Connor, all clients filled out an initial intake sheet. The basic information included permanent address and next of kin. Allison could not be absolutely sure, but she believed that Jenny had used her mother’s address in London. Allison even remembered the name: Evelyn Gray. Surely Mrs. Gray would know where her daughter was.

  Brixton lay on the south side of the Thames, a multicultural, working-class area of Victorian redbrick, ugly blocks of apartments, and tiny shops tucked under the arches of an old railroad line. Money from the Olympics had spilled over to nudge the business district toward recovery. The taxi driver smiled at her in his mirror. “The yuppies will move in soon, see if they don’t.”

  Allison looked out the window at a sidewalk flea market, chip shops, and people bundled in dark clothing. Graffiti on the side of a building suggested what the prime minister could do to himself.

  Clouds obscured the low winter sun, making the day seem later than three o’clock. Ms. Connor’s secretary had called back with the information Allison had wanted, but Allison had heard nothing from her father. She’d been relieved, because any discussion would almost surely have led to an argument. When she had something to tell him, she would try again to reach him.

  The taxi stopped in front of a small row house with a muddy garden that in summer would probably look just as neglected. Allison checked her notes to make sure she had the right address, then paid the driver. A metal gate swung open to a short walkway, and four steps took her to a small porch set into an alcove, from which Allison glanced back at the quiet street. At the end of the block two boys kicked a soccer ball. No one else was around.

  The door had a long, oval window with etched glass reinforced with flat security bars. Through the floral design on the door, Allison could just make out a hall with stairs to the second floor. The curtains in the narrow window to her right were slightly open, and she could see through them into a drab and dark front room. The lamps were off. Allison had not thought what to do if Mrs. Gray was not at home.

  She heard footsteps, or more accurately, felt the slight shudder through the boards of the porch floor. Someone was rushing down the stairs. A man. She couldn’t make out his features, but he wore a dark coat. He got to the bottom and froze.

  Allison took a step back, embarrassed to have been caught peering into the house this way. The glass vibrated as he came quickly toward her. The door opened, and a hand reached out and pulled her inside.

  She was looking up into Tom Fairchild’s face. He was breathing in great gasps. “Tom? I didn’t know you’d be here. I had this address—”

  Not releasing his grip on her wrist, he stuck his head out far enough to glance up and down the street, then shut the door. He pushed her against the wall and spoke through his teeth. “Bad timing. Who knows where you are?”

  “Nobody! I got this address from my office. Jenny gave it to me. Her mother lives here. Doesn
’t she?”

  “Yes.” He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Okay. Let me think.”

  He was wearing his coat. She saw the strap of a messenger bag over his chest. “You were leaving,” she said. “Where? Italy?”

  “Allison, I want you to listen to me. Don’t move. Just stay there and listen.”

  She pushed, and in her struggle got around him far enough to see a wide opening framed in dark wood that led to the room she had observed from the porch. Dim light through the lace curtains fell on a woman lying on the floor. Her arms were out, and her legs were twisted, almost as though she were running. Her blond-streaked hair flowed out behind her.

  Allison’s cry of surprise and horror was cut short when Tom’s hand went across her mouth. “She’s dead. I came back to get my things, and I found her like that.”

  Muffled screams caught in her throat. She went for his eyes, his ears, and her gloved hands slid off his head.

  “Goddammit, Allison, I didn’t kill her! I’ll knock you unconscious if you don’t stop that!” He thumped her against the wall to make his point. “Shut up and listen! I got here ten minutes ago. I was going to pick up my things and go to a hotel. She gave me a key last night. I came in and found her dead. I had no reason to kill her!”

  Allison stared at him. He tentatively removed his hand. Tears welled in her eyes. “Don’t hurt me. Please, Tom.”

  “Look at me,” he said. “Look at my face. My clothes. Do you see any scratches? Any blood?”

  She shook her head and ventured another glance toward the living room. “Jenny. Oh. Oh, my God.”

  “We’ve got to get out of here. Now.”

  “You have to call the police.”

  “What can I tell them? I don’t know who did this. I haven’t got one freaking idea who did this. If they find us here, what will they think?”

  “Tell them what happened. Tell them you found her—”

  “That’s really going to fly, isn’t it? How did you get here?”