Free City Of Lies by R.J. Ellory Page B

difficult not to think of how she might look beside him – in the street, at a restaurant table, close up against him.
    ‘So, what are you going to do?’
    Harper sat in the chair near the window. He worked his right foot into his shoe without untying the laces. ‘Do?’ he asked. ‘What d’you mean?’
    She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what I mean . . . this is awkward.’ She closed her eyes for a moment, and then she turned towards the window. ‘It’s very strange—’
    ‘What is?’ Harper reached for the left shoe.
    ‘You.’
    He frowned. ‘Me?’
    ‘You look too much like him . . . I mean, of course he’s older, a lot older than you, but I can imagine that he looked exactly the same as you when he was your age.’
    ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Harper said. His right foot found its home inside the shoe and he looked at her.
    Cathy Hollander had ground the cigarette into the ashtray. She had a Kleenex in her hand; she was holding it against her face. The movement in her chest and shoulders told Harper she was stifling tears.
    He thought of the
Mary McGregor
easing away from the jetty and making its graceful way towards Blackwater Sound. He knew if he concentrated for a second he would recall the smell of saltwater, the earthy swell of mangrove beneath it. He wished he was there, wished he was anywhere but here. His second thought about leaving New York.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and balled the Kleenex in her fist, her knuckles whitening. The mascara around her eyes had smeared. She looked like someone had kicked her six ways to Sunday and then some.
    ‘I don’t have anything to tell you,’ Harper said, trying to dispel the thought of how she would feel up close against him. His voice was edged with irritation. ‘I’m thirty-six years old. My father, a man I knew nothing about, left when I was two years old. My mother died when I was seven. My aunt and uncle raised me. My uncle shot himself in the head when I was twelve. That’s my life story. I left New York when I was nineteen, and aside from one or two visits I have stayed away. Last time I lived here Ed Koch was mayor. You guys have had seven years of Giuliani and a couple of Bloomberg since. My aunt called me and told me to come back, and here I am. After thirty-four yearsI find out I have a father, a father I thought was dead, and I get to see him in a hospital bed because someone figured he deserved to get shot. With people like me you get what you see. It isn’t complicated, and I’m not trying to make it so. I don’t know anything about you, and I know just as little about Walt Freiberg. How you figure in this is your business and I’m not asking—’
    ‘Don’t you
want
to know?’ she asked. She sounded surprised, like Harper’s reaction was exactly the opposite of what she’d expected.
    ‘Know what?’ he asked. He leaned back in the chair. The window was behind him. To Cathy Hollander he was nothing more than a silhouette.
    ‘About your father? About how I know him? About Walt?’
    Harper shook his head. ‘I figure I’ll get to know as much as I need to if I stay here—’
    ‘
If
you stay here?’
    Harper leaned forward. ‘What do you want from me?’
    Cathy frowned. ‘I didn’t mean to come here and upset you John—’
    Harper opened his mouth to speak.
    ‘I can leave if you like. I can go back and tell Walt that you don’t want to be here and that you’re going to go home.’
    ‘You’re putting words in my mouth, Miss Hollander—’
    ‘Don’t call me that.’
    ‘Why the hell not? It’s your name, isn’t it?’
    ‘Jesus Christ! I’m sorry, I really am very fucking sorry for intruding in your life.’ She gathered her purse, her cigarettes. She stood up, straightened her skirt. ‘I’ll go,’ she said coldly. ‘I’ll go see Walt now. I’ll tell him that you’re going back to Miami—’
    ‘Who said I was going back to Miami?’
    Cathy Hollander stood there for a moment. She looked like she would