Harvey gave her a dubious look. "You're crazy. Our last call was a drunken brawl in Times Square."
Her skin chilled. "I'm not crazy." It did happen. Just because Harvey and the paramedics couldn't remember it, that didn't mean it hadn't happened. Somehow Jack had erased their memories. What manner of man could do that?
At least he hadn't screwed with her head like he had the others. Or had he? Was she remembering something that hadn't even happened?
Oh God, not again. She'd already spent six months of her life in utter confusion, unable to tell reality from dreams. After the car accident, reality had seemed fuzzy, and her dreams had seemed real.
She had to know. She had to go back and face Jack.
Two blocks ahead of them, a car swerved onto Fifth Avenue. It skidded across two lanes, sliding dangerously close to a yellow cab before speeding away.
Harvey eased on the accelerator. "What do you think? Drunk driver?"
"Or stolen vehicle." Lara grabbed the radio mike to call the dispatcher. "I need a ten-fourteen." She read the license plate number as they continued to follow.
The radio crackled. "That's a ten-seventeen." The dispatcher reported the vehicle was not stolen.
"Roger," she answered. "Looks like a DWI."
"Let's get him." Harvey hit the lights and siren.
Lara's nerves tensed. You never knew how people would react. Luckily, the driver cooperated, and twenty minutes later, they were hauling his drunken ass into headquarters.
As the sun rose, Lara finished her paperwork for the night. She double-checked the log Harvey had kept. No reference of them ever going to the Plaza. She drummed her pen on the desk, debating what to do. If she included the Plaza incident in her report, then her supervisor, Captain O'Brian, would question why it didn't appear in the log or in Harvey's report. She'd never get promoted to detective if they started doubting her grip on reality.
She strode to the water cooler and took a long drink. Maybe she should visit a neurologist and see if it was possible to have a relapse.
Dammit, no! She crushed the paper cup in her hand and tossed it in the trash. She'd fought too hard to overcome her head injury. That was six years ago, and she was over it. She hadn't dreamed this up. For one thing, she could remember everything about Jack. All sorts of details.
Thick, black hair brushed back from his wide brow. The ends curled slightly where they touched his shirt collar. And that black silk shirt-it had clung to him, clearly outlining his broad shoulders and rock-hard abs. He was as gorgeous as any model she'd ever seen in a magazine.
And his voice had intrigued her. Soft and melodious, with an Italian accent, but also crisp and polite, as if he'd learned English from the British. The dual accents hinted at a man who would be complex. Fascinating, even. He was both Jack and Giacomo. Bellissima, he had called her.
She closed her eyes and mentally roamed up his body from his expensive Italian leather shoes. Long legs. Narrow hips. Trim waist. Broad shoulders with a lovely curve to his neck that made her want to nestle her face into the crook. Strong jaw with a shade of dark whiskers, just enough to make her want to touch. Expressive mouth. She'd found herself using his mouth to gauge his reactions. One corner of his mouth would curl up when he was amused. His lips would part when he was surprised, then press together when he was annoyed.
And his eyes-they were a warm, golden brown that radiated both intelligence and courage. He'd watched her every move with an intensity that bordered on... hunger.
"Hey, don't fall asleep standing up."
She jerked her eyes open to find Captain O'Brian regarding her curiously. "Sorry. It was a long night."
"It takes a while to adjust to the graveyard shift, but you're doing fine. Finish up and go home, Boucher."
"Yes, Captain." She hurried back to her desk to finish her report without the incident at the Plaza. But it had happened. Jack might look like a dream, but he was real.
She usually changed into civilian clothes before taking the train back to her apartment in Brooklyn. After a long night of dealing with drunk and disorderly people, she just wanted to fade into the crowd unnoticed. But this morning, she kept her uniform on and took the subway back to the Plaza hotel.
"I need information on Room 1412," she told the registration clerk.
"Just a moment." The young man typed on his keyboard. "That's one of our Edwardian suites. Would you like to reserve it?"
"It's already occupied. I want to check on it."
He frowned at his computer screen. "That suite is vacant at the moment."
"Well, maybe they checked out, but they were there last night. They had a wild party. Hotel security called the police."
He gave her a confused look. "I don't know what to tell you, Officer. According to our records, that room was vacant last night."
Lara swallowed hard. How far had Jack gone to erase his steps? "Is the night manager here? I'd like to speak to him. And hotel security, too."
The story remained the same. The night manager had no record of Suite 1412 being occupied. Lara asked him to check on any room reserved by a man named Giacomo, but no such name emerged in their files.
Hotel security was even worse. They got all huffy when she claimed they had called the police. They could handle matters on their own, thank you very much. And there hadn't been any wild parties the night before.
She insisted on seeing the room for herself, so they reluctantly gave her a key. On the fourteenth floor, she opened the door slowly and let it swing open. She inhaled, expecting to encounter the odor of whiskey.
It was gone. But the strong smell of disinfectant and cleansers filled the room. She walked in and looked to the left where the man had lain on the carpet, covered in blood. He was gone. The carpet was clean.
She wandered through the room, eyeing the upholstery and carpet. No stains. Her gaze shifted to the wall. No blood splatter. She moved closer. Either she was off her rocker, or someone had done a phenomenal cleaning job.
He had said he would clean it up.
She touched the wall. It looked so fresh. Had they repainted it? Too bad she couldn't get a CSI team in here. There was no way Captain O'Brian would okay that, not when hotel management insisted the room had been empty.
She strode into the bedroom. The satin comforter was spotless. How had Jack managed that? She peered into the bathroom. No sex doll. She scanned the mosaic floor and white marble vanity for any sign of blood. The twenty-four-carat-gold faucets gleamed. The towels were neatly folded. No one would ever believe this room had been occupied.
She strode toward the door to let herself out. Somehow, Jack had tampered with the memories of all the hotel staff. Had he bothered with the guests?
She knocked on the next door down the hall. A droopy-eyed, yawning couple told her that everything had been quiet the night before, then slammed the door in her face. If it had been quiet, why were they so sleepy?
Well, that was easy. They could have been up all night making love. Lara sighed. Just because she was going without didn't mean other people were.
Close to the elevator, a man in a business suit emerged from his room, carrying a briefcase.
"Sir." She jogged to catch up with him.
"Yes?" He gave her that wary look so many people give the cops, like they know they've done something wrong and they're hoping she doesn't know.
She gave him a friendly smile to put him at ease. "I wanted to ask you about last night. Did you hear anything out of the ordinary?"
"You mean the damned bagpipes? Some idiot was playing them at three in the morning."
Lara's heart lurched up her throat. She wasn't crazy! And Jack had missed someone. "Yes, exactly. Do you remember anything else?"
"Just that I couldn't sleep. I finally went out to a bar to get a drink."
And that was how Jack had missed him. "Thank you."
"Well, I just hope my presentation today doesn't suck," he grumbled as he lumbered toward the elevator.
Jack was real. But how could she find him? She glanced at the local newspaper in front of the door. "Sir?" she called after the businessman. "Do you mind if I take this paper?"
"Be my guest." He stepped into an elevator.
Lara picked up the paper and turned to the section on wedding announcements. It had been a bachelor party with bagpipes and claymores. Chances were good that the groom was Scottish.
Today was Saturday, so there were plenty of weddings listed. MacPherson, Ferguson, and MacPhie. Three weddings with Scottish-sounding grooms.