The Dead Room by Heather Graham Read Free Book Online

easily than hers, simply because he had Dakota Sioux in his background. Apparently that made him a more spiritual soul in the eyes of the world.
    â€œLeslie?”
    â€œI’m okay. And I…I think I need to be alone a bit. But later, I’d love for you to visit. I’ll show you New York as you’ve never seen it.”
    â€œDeal,” Nikki said.
    After a few more minutes of chat, they hung up.
    Leslie lay in bed, awake. She was going home for all the right reasons, she assured herself. The work. The opportunity. And she just plain loved New York. She needed to be back.
    Hell.
    She was going home to try to find a way to reach Matt….
    Â 
    Joe watched as Eileen settled into her chauffeur-driven sedan, refusing the offer of a ride with a thank-you, though he wasn’t really sure why. It was late, but this was New York. People were out at all hours, even though some areas, like this one, became much quieter.
    When the car had disappeared into the easy flow of the late-night traffic, he found himself just walking down the street. He had always loved downtown. He was a New Yorker, born and bred in Brooklyn Heights, an area he loved. But downtown New York offered a history few people took the time to appreciate, since the city offered such a bustle of business, shopping and entertainment.
    His walk took him down Broadway. He found himself feeling a strange sense of comfort as he walked by St. Paul’s; even the old burial ground, a sign of the times gone by, gave him a sense of permanence and belonging. He loved St. Paul’s, though it wasn’t as grand as Trinity Church just down the road. St. Paul’s was the only remaining church built before the Revolutionary War, a true Georgian masterpiece. Washington’s pew was still there, along with displays honoring those who had worked tirelessly on the rescue efforts after 9/11, since the church lay in the shadows of the monumental tragedy. Drenched in history, yet still a place for modern man to find solace.
    He kept walking, wondering at the age of some of the buildings, trying to discern what might really be old beneath a newer facade, his wanderings taking him by Fraunces Tavern and then down to the once-again newly restored Hastings House.
    He had come here before, since that fateful night. Several times. And he never knew exactly why. Every time he felt the same searing and poignant ripple of pain. Four dead. Jerry Osbourne, police officer. Sally Rydell, socialite. Tom Burton, architect. And Matthew Connolly, brilliant journalist, a man whose words had the ability to create genuine change.
    He’d been working out in Las Vegas when it had happened, on a cold case involving kidnapping, fraud and money laundering. The job had taken nearly a year, but it had paid extremely well. He’d managed to tie it all up shortly after he’d flown home for his cousin’s funeral.
    He had never felt so numb in his life. When he’d gone to the hospital afterward, where Matt’s fiancée, Leslie, had still been in intensive care, he had been grateful to discover that she spent most of her time unconscious. He hadn’t known what to say to her. Because of the amount of time he spent out of the city, he’d never actually met her, except maybe once, when they’d been kids. He’d felt awkward, glad that he could leave a message saying he’d been there, equally glad to disappear.
    Strange, growing up, he and Matt had seen each other only on family occasions. Matt had lived by Central Park; he had lived in Brooklyn Heights. Once it had seemed as if they were far apart. Maybe it was just the size of New York. Each neighborhood was complete unto itself. They’d always gotten along; as adults, even though real distance often came between them. They had actually become the best of friends. Maybe it had been their shared passion for many of the same rights and ideals.
    Matt had been a man of impeccable integrity. Many