fifty-three
LISA RYAN WENT BACK TO WORK at the salon on Tuesday. She endured the response she expected from her coworkers and clients—a mixture of genuine sympathy and avid curiosity about the details of the explosion that had claimed Jimmy’s life.
She arrived home at six o’clock to find her closest friend, Brenda Curren, in the kitchen. The enticing aroma of roasting chicken was in the air. The table had been set for six, and Brenda’s husband, Ed, was working with Charley on his second-grade reading assignment.
“You’re too good to be true,” Lisa said quietly.
“Forget it,” Brenda said briskly. “We thought a little company might be welcome after your first day back on the job.”
“It is.” Lisa went into the bathroom and splashed water on her face. You haven’t cried all day, she told herself fiercely. Don’t start now.
Over dinner, Ed Curren brought up the subject of the equipment in Jimmy’s workroom. “Lisa, I know a little about what Jimmy was doing down there, and I know he had some sophisticated tools. I think you should sell them right away. Otherwise they’ll lose their value very quickly.”
He began to carve the chicken. “If you’d like, I’ll be glad to go through Jimmy’s workroom and sort out everything that’s down there.”
“No!” Lisa said. Then, when she saw the expressions on the faces of her friends and her children as they sat staring at her, she realized how vehemently she had refused what was merely a kind, neighborly offer.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “it’s just that the thought of selling Jimmy’s things makes me realize that he really isn’t coming back. I just don’t feel up to dealing with it right now.”
She saw the look of sadness coming over her children’s faces and tried to turn it into a joke. “Can you imagine if Daddy came back and found his workroom cleaned out?”
But later, when the Currens were gone and she knew the children were asleep, she crept downstairs, opened the file drawer and stared at the package of money. It’s like a time bomb, she thought; I have to get it out of here!
fifty-four
DAN MINOR REARRANGED HIS TUESDAY AFTERNOON schedule in order to have time to go downtown to the Bureau of Missing Persons at One Police Plaza, the headquarters of the NYPD.
It did not take long, however, to realize how hopeless it was to attempt to get information about Quinny there.
The detective he spoke to was sympathetic but laid out the facts in a very convincing and realistic way. “I’m awfully sorry, Doctor Minor, but you don’t know if your mother was even in New York at the point you started looking for her. You’re not even certain that she’s ‘missing’—you just know that you haven’t been able to find her. Have you any idea how many people are reported missing in this city each year?
He left the building and took a cab home with a feeling of total hopelessness. His best chance, he decided, was to walk around the East Fourth Street area.
He wasn’t sure exactly how he would go about contacting the clusters of homeless people who were living in the abandoned buildings. I can’t just walk in on them, he reasoned. I guess I’ll just have to try to get friendly with anyone I see outside, and then I’ll mention Quinny’s name to them and see what happens. Just showing an old picture worked with Lilly, he reminded himself, somewhat reassured. And at least now I know what her friends called her.
He changed into a light sweat suit and sneakers. Just as he was leaving his building, he ran into Penny Maynard, who was just coming in.
“Drinks at seven, my place?” she said, flashing him an inviting smile.
She was very attractive, and he had enjoyed himself when he had been to her apartment a few nights earlier with some other neighbors for drinks and pasta. Without any hesitation, however, Dan declined, saying that he already had made plans for the evening. I don’t want to fall into a drop-in pattern with someone who lives so close, he told himself as he walked rapidly across town.
As he began to accelerate his pace, Nell MacDermott’s face floated through his mind—a frequent occurrence since the day he had run into her in the park. She wasn’t listed in the phone book; he knew because he had checked. But her grandfather’s consulting firm was listed, and he had thought of trying to reach her through someone there.
I could phone and ask MacDermott for her number, Dan thought. Or maybe it would be smarter to actually stop in and see him. I did meet him once, at that White House reception. At least he would see that I’m not some kind of stalker or romantic phony.
The thought of seeing Nell MacDermott again cheered Dan during the next two hours as he walked, block after block, in the area of East Fourth Street, begging for information about Quinny.
He had fortified himself with a stack of his cards with his phone number, which he handed out to just about everyone he talked to. “Fifty bucks for anyone who can give me a lead to her,” he promised.
Finally, at seven o’clock he gave up, took a cab back uptown to Central Park and began to jog. At Seventy-second Street he once again ran into Nell.
fifty-five
AFTER LEAVING NELL MACDERMOTT, Jack Sclafani and George Brennan drove directly to headquarters. By unspoken mutual consent, they waited until they were back in their offices before discussing what she had told them.
Jack settled at his desk and began drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. “MacDermott as much as said she thinks Lang may have had something to do with the explosion on the boat. Yet when we took a look at him, his story about the traffic accident seemed to check out.
“As I remember it, he claimed he was using a cellular phone and that the sun got in his eyes. He had a fender bender with the trailer truck. When we saw him, his face did look pretty banged up.”
“Maybe, but he was the one who hit the truck. The truck didn’t hit him,” Brennan said. “It could have been intentional. Anyway, Nell MacDermott raised a lot of interesting questions.” He pulled out a pad and began to jot down notes. “Here’s one right off the top of my head that I think might be worth looking into: Exactly what kind of building did Lang really want to put up on that Vandermeer property, and how essential was the Kaplan parcel to him if he was going to realize his goal? That question goes to motive.”
“Add this one,” Sclafani said. “When did Lang tell Cauliff that his design had been rejected?”
“Which leads to my next question, Jack. Why didn’t Cauliff tell his wife that Lang had dumped him? That would be the normal thing to do, assuming they were a close couple.”
“Talking about close—what do you think is going on with Winifred’s boyfriend, Harry Reynolds?” Sclafani asked.
“I’ll throw another suggestion on the table,” Brennan said. “Let’s dig around and see if we can’t find a connection between Lang and our old friend, Jed Kaplan.”
Sclafani nodded, pushed back his chair, got up and walked over to the window. “A nice day,” he observed. “My wife thinks it would be a great idea if we spent a long weekend at her folks’ place in Cape May. Somehow, though, I don’t think that’s going to happen anytime soon.”
“It isn’t,” Brennan assured him.
“Since we’re making work for ourselves, I have one more name to add to the list.”
“I can guess who it is: Adam Cauliff.”
“Exactly. Kaplan hated him. His former employer, Robert Walters, hated him. Lang rejected his design. He doesn’t exactly come through as prince of the city. I wonder who else may have thought it would be a good idea if his boat didn’t make it back to the marina?”
“Okay. Let’s get busy,” Brennan said. “I’ll start by making some background calls on Cauliff.”
A couple of hours later, Brennan poked his head into Sclafani’s office. “Got some preliminary feedback from a guy I called in North Dakota. It seems Cauliff was about as popular with his former employer out there as ants are at a church picnic. This could be leading somewhere.”
fifty-six
AS THEY JOGGED TOGE
THER along the paths of Central Park, Nell realized that there was something very comforting about having Dan Minor running beside her. He seemed to exude an innate strength, a power that showed in the firm line of his jaw, in the disciplined way he moved, and in the firm grasp of his hand on her arm when she started to trip and he reached out to steady her.
They ran as far north as the reservoir, then circled back until they were on the East Side at Seventy-second Street.
Panting, Nell stopped. “This is where I get off,” she announced.
Having serendipitously run into her again, Dan had no intention of letting her go until he knew where she lived and had extracted her phone number. “I’ll walk you home,” he said promptly.
On the way, he said casually, “I don’t know about you, Nell, but I’m getting hungry. I also know that I’ll be a lot more presentable after I shower and change. Would you consider meeting me for dinner in about an hour or so?”
“Oh, I don’t think—”
He interrupted her. “Do you have specific plans?”
“No.”
“Don’t forget—I’m a doctor. Even if you don’t feel hungry, you have to eat.”
After a few more minutes of gentle persuasion, they parted, having agreed to meet later at Il Tinello on West Fifty-sixth Street. “Better make that an hour and a half,” Nell suggested. “Unless, of course, all the traffic lights turn green when they see you coming.”
EARLIER THAT DAY, after she had returned home from Adam’s office, Nell had spent several hours sorting and folding Adam’s clothing. Now the bed and the chairs in the guest room were covered with stacks of socks and ties, shorts and undershirts. She had moved all his suits and slacks and jackets into the closet there as well.
Unnecessary work, she said to herself as she went back and forth carrying the hangers, but once she started to take Adam’s things out of the master bedroom, she wanted to complete the job.
When the dresser was empty, she had the building maintenance men take it down to the storage room. Then she had rearranged the furniture in the bedroom to where it had been before her marriage.
Now, as she returned from the park and hurried into the bedroom, where she began to peel off her jogging shorts and T-shirt, Nell realized that the room seemed in some way to have a renewed familiarity—that it was again giving her a sense of sanctuary.
I guess it’s just that looking at Adam’s dresser and opening the closet and seeing his clothes made me think of how he died—so suddenly, she thought, without any chance to say good-bye. It also reminded me of those last angry moments we spent together before he stalked out of the house, and out of my life forever.
Now, with all those reminders gone, she at least knew that when she got home from dinner, she would at last be able to sleep.
After a quick shower, she looked into her now more spacious-seeming closet and decided to wear a periwinkle-blue silk pants suit that she had bought at the end of the season last year and had forgotten about. She had come across it when she was rearranging the closet and remembered how much she had liked it when she tried it on.
Best of all, though, was the fact that it didn’t have any link to Adam, who noticed everything she wore.
DAN MINOR WAS WAITING for her at the table when Nell arrived at Il Tinello. He was so deep in thought, though, that he didn’t see her until she was almost upon him. He looks as if he’s worried about something, Nell thought, but then as the maître d’ pulled out a chair for her, Dan sprang to his feet and smiled.
“All the traffic lights must have turned green for you,” Nell said.
“Almost all of them. You look lovely, Nell. Thanks for joining me. I’m afraid I bullied you into saying yes. That’s the trouble with being a doctor. We expect people to do exactly what we tell them.”
“You didn’t bully me. I’m glad you persuaded me to get out, and, to be honest, I’m actually hungry.”
It was true. The enticing smell of wonderful Italian food filled the restaurant, and as she looked about the room, Nell realized it emanated from the pasta the waiter was carrying to the next table. She turned to Dan and laughed. “I almost pointed over there and said, ‘I want that.’ ”
Over a glass of wine they discovered the mutual friends they had in Washington. Over prosciutto and melon they talked about the upcoming presidential election and realized they would be canceling out each other’s vote. When the pasta arrived, Dan told her about his decision to move to New York, and the reasons behind it.
“The hospital is becoming a major pediatric burn center, and since that’s my area of specialization, it’s a great opportunity for me to help make it happen.”
He also told her about his search for his mother.
“You mean she just dropped out of your life?!” Nell exclaimed.
“She was suffering from massive clinical depression. She had become an alcoholic and felt I’d be better off with my grandparents.” He hesitated. “It’s a very long story,” he said. “Someday, if you’re interested, maybe I’ll tell you the whole thing. The bottom line is that my mother is getting older. God knows, her body has been abused and neglected all these years. Moving to New York makes it possible for me to search for her myself. I thought I had a lead on her for a while there, but now I can’t find her, and no one has seen her since last fall.”
“Do you think she wants you to find her, Dan?”
“She left because she blamed herself for an accident in which I was nearly killed. I want to show her how that accident turned out not to be a bad thing, and, in fact, proved to be of enormous value to me.”
He told about going to the missing persons bureau, and added, “I have absolutely no faith that anything will come of that.”
“Mac might be able to help,” Nell told him. “He’s got a lot of pull, and I know they’d search the records if he made a few calls. I’ll talk to him, but I also think you should drop in to his office yourself. I’ll give you his card.”
When the demitasse came, Dan said, “Nell, I’ve talked your ear off about me. Say that you don’t want to discuss it, and we’re off the subject, but I have to ask: How is it really going for you?”
“Really going for me?” Nell dropped the sliver of lemon peel into her cup of espresso. “I don’t know how to answer that. You see, when someone dies but you don’t have a body and a casket and a procession to the graveyard, there’s a lack of closure about the death. It’s almost like that person is still out there somewhere, even though you know he isn’t. That’s the way I feel, and I’m almost haunted by a sense of unreality. I keep saying to myself, ‘Adam is dead, Adam is dead,’ but they keep sounding like just meaningless words.”
“Did it feel that way when you lost your parents?”
“No, I knew they were gone. The difference is that they died in an accident. Adam did not—I’m sure of that. Think about it. Four people died on that boat. Someone needed to get rid of one of them, maybe all four of them, who knows? That person is still walking around, enjoying life, maybe having a late dinner right now, just as we are.” She paused, looking first at her hands and then back up into his face. “Dan, I am going to find out who did this—and I’m not doing it just for myself. Lisa Ryan, a young woman with three little kids, needs answers too. Her husband was one of the four people on the boat.”
“You realize, Nell, that anyone who can so calculatingly take four lives is a very dangerous human being.”
Across from him, Nell MacDermott’s face contorted into a grimace, and her eyes widened and filled with an expression of near panic.
Dan immediately became alarmed. “Nell, what is it?”
She shook her head. “No, it’s all right,” she said, as much to convince herself as to convince him.
“It’s not all right, Nell. What is it?”
For an instant she had felt just as she had in those terrible moments when she was caught in the riptide. She had felt trapped and as though she were fighting for air. But this time, instead of trying t
o swim, she had been struggling to open a door. And instead of the cold water, she had sensed heat. Burning heat—and an awareness that she was going to die.
Wednesday, June 21
fifty-seven
“THE VANDERMEER SITE is only one of many properties under development by Lang Enterprises,” Peter Lang said coldly.
He clearly did not relish the Wednesday morning visit of Detectives Jack Sclafani and George Brennan to his office on the top floor of 1200 Avenue of the Americas.
“For example,” he continued, his tone condescending, “We own this building. I could drive you all over Manhattan and show you the scope of the other properties we own, as well as those we manage as realtors. But before you waste any more of my time, I have to ask, gentlemen, what is your point?”
Our point, Buddy, Sclafani thought, is that you’re starting to look like the prime suspect in four murders, so don’t get on your high horse with us.
“Mr. Lang, we appreciate how busy you are,” George Brennan said soothingly. “But I’m sure you can understand our need to ask you a few questions. You went to see Nell MacDermott yesterday, didn’t you?”
Lang raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I did. What of it?”
He didn’t like having that brought up, Sclafani thought. Up till now, he’s been on his own turf and feeling pretty sure of himself. But all his money and looks and background won’t be worth a plugged nickel if we can hang a quadruple murder on him, and he knows it.
“What was the purpose of your visit to Ms. MacDermott?”
“Purely business,” Lang said, looking at his watch. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. I have to leave for a meeting.”
“You’re having a meeting, Mr. Lang.” Brennan’s voice had become steely. “When we spoke to you some ten days ago, you said that you and Adam Cauliff were discussing a kind of joint venture on which he might be architect.”