The Second Time Around

  “There are plenty of unanswered questions,” I said as I stood up. “The cops can trace the e-mails. That may prove to be a break for you, Marty. They promised to let me know who it is. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  As he got to his feet, Marty asked the question that was also on my mind. “Did Mrs. Spencer say she had company that night?”

  “No, she did not.” Then out of loyalty I added, “You’ve seen the size of the place. Somebody could have been on those grounds without her ever knowing it.”

  “Not with a car, unless he knew how to punch in the combination for the gate or someone in the house released it for him. That’s how those things work. Have the cops checked out people who worked up there, or are they just concentrating on me?”

  “I can’t answer that. But I can tell you that I’m going to find out. Let’s start with the e-mail and see where it takes us.”

  The antagonism Rhoda had shown toward me when I got to the house had vanished. She said, “Carley, do you really think there’s a chance that they will find the guy who did set the fire?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Maybe miracles still happen?”

  She was talking about more than the fire. “I believe in them, Rhoda,” I said firmly, and I meant it.

  But as I drove home, I was certain that the one miracle she wanted most of all was going to be denied her. I knew I couldn’t help her there, but I would do everything I could to help Marty prove his innocence. It would be terrible enough for her to endure the death of her child, but it would be made that much worse if she couldn’t have her husband at her side.

  I should know, I thought.

  THIRTY-ONE

  “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” That was the way I felt when I got home from being with Marty and Rhoda Bikorsky. It was nearly nine o’clock. I was tired and hungry. I didn’t want to cook. I didn’t want pizza. I didn’t want Chinese food. I looked in my refrigerator and was positively disconsolate. What greeted me was a pathetic jumble of cheese drying at the edges, a couple of eggs, a soft tomato, some brown lettuce, and a quarter loaf of French bread I’d forgotten about.

  Julia Child could turn this into a gourmet delight, I reminded myself. Let’s see what I can do.

  Keeping that charmingly eccentric chef in mind, I set to work and didn’t do a bad job of it at all. First I poured a glass of chardonnay. Then I stripped the brown leaves off the lettuce, tossed some garlic, oil, and vinegar together, and made a salad. I sliced the French bread thin, shook Parmesan cheese over it, and stuck it under the broiler. The good part of the cheese and the tomato contributed to an omelet that tasted great.

  Not everyone can make an omelet, I thought, congratulating myself.

  I ate from a tray while sitting in the club chair that had been in our living room when I was growing up. I had my feet on a hassock; it was comforting to be home and unwind. I opened a magazine I’d been wanting to read, but I found I couldn’t concentrate on it because the events of the day kept churning through my mind.

  Vivian Powers. I could see her standing at the door of her home as I drove off. I can understand why Manuel Gomez commented that he was happy Nick had known her. Somehow I could not imagine those two people, both of whom had lost loved ones to cancer, living it up in Europe on money that should have been used for cancer research.

  Vivian’s father had sworn his daughter would not leave her family in anguish, wondering what had happened to her. Nick Spencer’s son was clinging to the hope that his father was alive. Would Nick really allow a child who’d lost his mother to live hoping from day to day that he’d hear from his father?

  The earliest local TV news came on at ten o’clock, and I tuned in, anxious to see if there were any updates about Spencer or Powers. I was in luck. Barry West, the stockholder who claimed he had seen Nick, was going to be interviewed. I couldn’t wait. After the usual barrage of commercials, he was the lead story.

  West certainly did not look the part of Sherlock Holmes. He was a medium-sized, pudgy guy, with apple dumpling cheeks and a receding hairline. For the interview, he was seated in the outdoor cafe where he said he had spotted Nicholas Spencer.

  The Fox News correspondent in Zurich got right to the point. “Mr. West, this is where you were seated when you believe you saw Nicholas Spencer?”

  “I don’t believe I saw him. I saw him,” West said emphatically.

  I don’t know why I expected him to have a voice that was either nasal or whiney. I was wrong—his voice was forceful, but modulated.

  “My wife and I had to decide whether to cancel this vacation,” he went on. “It’s our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, and we planned it for a long time, but then we lost a lot of money in Gen-stone. Anyhow, we got here last Friday, and on Tuesday afternoon we were sitting here talking about how glad we were that we hadn’t stayed home when I happened to look over there.”

  He pointed to a table on the outside rim of the ones connected with the cafe. “He was right there. I couldn’t believe it. I’ve been at enough Gen-stone stockholder meetings to know Spencer. He’d changed his hair—it used to be dark blond and it’s black now—but it wouldn’t be any different if he had a ski hat on. I know his face.”

  “You tried to speak to him, didn’t you, Mr. West?”

  “Speak to him, I shouted to him, ‘Hey, Spencer, I want to talk to you.’ “

  “Then what happened?”

  “I’ll tell you exactly what happened. He jumped up, threw some money on the table, and ran. That’s what happened.”

  The newscaster pointed to the table where Spencer allegedly had been sitting. “We’ll leave it to you viewers. As we record this, the weather conditions and time are the same as they were on Tuesday evening when Barry West believes he saw Nicholas Spencer at that table. We have one of our staff, who is approximately Mr. Spencer’s height and build, at that table now. How clearly can you see him?”

  From that distance the staff member they had picked indeed could have been Nicholas Spencer. Even his features were the same type. But I didn’t see how anyone looking at him from that distance and angle could make a positive identification.

  The camera went back to Barry West. “I saw Nicholas Spencer,” he said positively. “My wife and I put one hundred and fifty thousand dollars into his company. I demand that our government send people to track this guy down and make him tell where he put all that money. I worked hard for it, and I want it back.”

  The Fox correspondent continued, “According to the information we have, several different investigative bodies are following this lead, as well as looking into the disappearance of Vivian Powers, the woman who is reputed to be Nicholas Spencer’s lover.”

  The telephone rang, and I snapped off the television. Even if the phone hadn’t rung, I was about to do that anyhow. I’d had more than enough of hearing people put their improbable spin on events.

  I know my greeting sounded quick and impatient: “Hello.”

  “Hey, did somebody walk on your grave today? You sound feisty.”

  It was Casey.

  I laughed. “I’m a bit weary,” I said. “Maybe a bit sad, too.”

  “Tell me about it, Carley.”

  “Doctor, you sound as though you’re asking, ‘Where does it hurt?’ “

  “Maybe I am.”

  I gave him a thumbnail sketch of the day and ended with “The bottom line is that I think Marty Bikorsky is being railroaded, and I think something very bad happened to Vivian Powers. The guy who said he saw Nick Spencer in Zurich may be right, but it’s a long shot, a very long shot.”

  “The cops can absolutely trace the e-mails you received?”

  “Unless the guy is one of those whiz-kid cyber geniuses, they can, or so they say.”

  “Then unless he’s a crank, as you say yourself, you may have a breakthrough that will help Bikorsky. On another matter, we may not be going up to Greenwich on Sunday, so what else would you like to do? If the weather is go
od, a suggestion would be to take a drive and get a shore dinner somewhere.”

  “Did your friends call off their party? I thought it was an anniversary or a birthday?”

  I could hear the hesitation in Casey’s voice. “No, but when I called Vince to tell him that you’d be able to come with me, I bragged about your new job and the fact that you’re writing a cover story on Nicholas Spencer.”

  “And . . .”

  “And I could tell something was wrong. He said that he was thinking of you as the financial advice columnist when he and I talked earlier about you coming. The problem is that Nick Spencer’s first wife’s parents, Reid and Susan Barlowe, are his neighbors, and they are coming to the party. Vince says that they’re on a roller coaster as it is with all that’s going on about Spencer.”

  “They have Nick’s son, don’t they?”

  “Yes. In fact, Jack Spencer is best friends with Vince’s son.”

  “Look, Casey,” I said, “I’m not going to stand in the way of you being at that dinner. I’ll bow out.”

  “Not an option,” he said flatly.

  “We can go out Saturday or Monday or whenever. But having said that, I would absolutely give my eye teeth to talk to Nick’s former in-laws. They refuse to talk to the media, and I don’t think they’re doing their grandson a favor. On my word of honor, I won’t mention Nick Spencer if I’m at that party or ask them one single question, either leading or oblique, but maybe if they get some sense of me, they might give me a call later on.”

  Casey didn’t answer, and I heard my voice rise when I said, “Damn it, Casey, the Barlowes can’t put their heads in the sand. Something big is going on, and they should be aware of it. I’d put my own life on the line that that jerk Barry West, who says he saw Spencer in Zurich, only saw someone who happened to look a little like him!

  “Casey, Vivian Powers, Nick’s assistant, is missing. I told you about Dr. Broderick. He’s still on the critical list. Nick’s house in Bedford was burned down. Nick saw his former in-laws all the time. He entrusted his son to them. Isn’t it possible he told them something that might shed some light on all this?”

  “What you say makes a lot of sense, Carley,” Casey said quietly. “I’ll talk to Vince. I gather from what he said that the Barlowes are pretty much at the end of their rope with all the conflicting reports about Nick Spencer. His son, Jack, is going to be in deep trouble if something isn’t resolved. Maybe Vince can persuade them to talk to you.”

  “I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”

  “Okay. But one way or the other, we’re on for Sunday.”

  “Terrific, Doctor.”

  “One more thing, Carley.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Call me when you find out who sent those e-mails. I think you’re right—I’ll bet all of them came from the same source, and I don’t like the one that talks about judgment day. That guy sounds wacky, and maybe he’s getting fixated on you, which worries me. Just be careful.”

  Casey sounded so serious that I wanted to cheer him up. “Judge not lest ye be judged,” I suggested.

  “A word to the wise is sufficient,” he countered. “Good night, Carley.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Now that his rifle was safe in Annie’s grave, Ned felt secure. He knew the cops would be back, and he wasn’t even surprised when they rang his doorbell again. This time he opened up right away. He knew he looked better than he had on Tuesday. After he had buried the rifle Tuesday afternoon, his clothes and hands were muddy, but he didn’t care. When he got home, he opened the new bottle of scotch, settled into his chair, and drank until he fell asleep. All he could think of when he buried the rifle was that if he kept digging, he could get to Annie’s coffin and pry it open and touch her.

  He had to force himself to smooth down the dirt and leave her grave alone; he just missed her too much.

  The next day he woke up at about five o’clock in the morning, and even though the window was streaked and dirty, he could see the sun as it came up. The room got so bright that he noticed his hands and saw how dirty they were. His clothes were caked with dried mud, too.

  If the cops had walked in on him then, they’d have said, “You been digging somewhere, Ned?” Maybe they’d have thought to check Annie’s grave and find his rifle.

  That was why he’d gotten in the shower yesterday and stood under it for a long time, scrubbing himself with the long-handled brush that Annie had bought for him. Then he even washed his hair, shaved, and cut his fingernails. Annie was always telling him that it was important to look clean and respectable.

  “Ned, who’s going to hire you if you don’t shave or change your clothes or brush your hair so that it doesn’t look wild,” she had cautioned. “Ned, sometimes you look so terrible that people don’t want to be near you.”

  On Monday, when he’d driven over to the library in Hastings to send the first two e-mails to Carley DeCarlo, he noticed that the librarian looked at him strangely, as if he didn’t belong there.

  Then Wednesday, yesterday, he’d gone to Croton to send the new e-mails, and he’d worn clean clothes. Nobody paid any attention to him at all.

  And so, even though he’d slept in his clothes last night, he knew that he looked better today than he had on Tuesday.

  When they came, it was the same two cops, Pierce and Carson. Right away he could see that they noticed he looked better. Then he saw them look at the chair where all his dirty clothes had been lying. After they’d left on Tuesday, he’d thrown them all in the washing machine. He had known the cops would be back and didn’t want them to see the clothes all caked with mud.

  Ned followed Carson’s eyes and saw that he was looking at the muddy boots by his chair. Damn! He had missed putting them away.

  “Ned, can we talk to you for a couple of minutes?” Carson asked.

  Ned knew he was trying to sound like an old friend who just happened to drop in. He wasn’t fooled, though. He knew how cops worked. The time he’d been arrested about five years ago because he got into a fight with that jerk in the bar, the landscaper who worked for the Spencers in Bedford and who said he’d never hire him again, the cops had acted nicey-nicey at first. But then they’d said the fight was his fault.

  “Sure, come in,” he told them. They pulled out the same chairs they had in the previous visit. The pillow and blanket were where he had left them on the couch the other day. He’d been sleeping in the chair the past two nights.

  “Ned,” Detective Carson said, “you were right about the fellow who was behind you in Brown’s drugstore the other night. His name is Garret.”

  So what? Ned wanted to say. Instead he just listened.

  “Garret says he thought he saw you parked outside the drugstore when he left. Is he right?”

  Should I admit that I saw him? You had to have seen him, Ned told himself. Peg was trying to make her bus. She’d finished with him fast. “Sure, I was still there,” he said. “That guy was about a minute behind me coming out of the store. I got in my car, turned the key, changed the radio station to get the ten o’clock news, and then took off.”

  “Where did Garret go, Ned?”

  “I don’t know. Why should I care where he went anyhow? I pulled out of the lot, made a U-turn, and came home. Maybe you want to arrest me because I made a U-turn, huh?”

  “When the traffic is light, I’ve been known to do one myself,” Carson said.

  Now we get the buddy-buddy act, Ned thought. They’re trying to trap me. He looked at Carson and said nothing.

  “Ned, do you have any guns?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever fired a gun?”

  Be careful, Ned warned himself. “As a kid, a BB gun.” He bet they already knew that.

  “Have you ever been arrested, Ned?”

  Admit it, he told himself. “Once. It was all a misunderstanding.”

  “And did you spend time in jail?”

  He’d been in the county jail until Annie scraped together th
e bail. That was where he’d learned how to send e-mails that couldn’t be traced. The guy in the next cell said that all you had to do was go to a library, use one of their computers, go on the Internet, and punch in “Hotmail.” “It’s a free service, Ned,” the guy had explained. “You can put in a fake name, and they don’t know the difference. If anybody gets sore, they can trace that it came from that library, but they can’t trace it to you.”

  “I was only in overnight,” he said sullenly.

  “Ned, I see your boots over there are pretty muddy. Did you happen to be in the county park the other night, after going to the drugstore?”

  “I told you, I came straight home.” The county park was where he had dumped Peg.

  Carson was studying the boots again.

  I didn’t get out of the car at the park, Ned told himself. I told Peg to get out and walk home, and then when she started to run, I shot her. They don’t have any reason to talk about my boots. I didn’t leave footprints in the park.

  “Ned, would you mind if we took a look at your van?” Pierce, the tall detective, asked.

  They had nothing on him. “Yeah, I mind,” Ned snapped. “I mind a lot. I go to the drugstore and buy something. Something happens to a very nice lady who had the hard luck to miss her bus, and you try to tell me I did something to her. Get out of here.”

  He saw the way their eyes went dead. He had said too much. How did he know she had missed the bus? That’s what they were thinking.

  He took a chance. Had he heard it or had he dreamt it? “They said on the radio that she missed her bus. That’s right, isn’t it? Someone saw her running for it. And, yes, I do mind you looking at my van, and I mind you coming here and asking me all these questions. Get out of here. You hear me? Get out of here and stay out of here!”

  He hadn’t meant to shake his fist at them, but that’s what he did. The bandage on his hand shook loose, and they could see the blistering and the swelling.