“Will you ladies join me for a cup of coffee?” he asked.
Gertrude dabbed at her eyes and shook her head. “I really have to get to work,” she said. “I’m taking Edna’s place until they find a new receptionist, and the doctors both have office hours this afternoon.”
Mrs. Krupshak also declined. “But Father, if you’re on your way back to the rectory, would you drop me off? Then I won’t take Gertrude out of her way.”
“Of course.”
Gana turned to Gertrude. Impulsively she said, “Why don’t you come by for dinner with us tonight? I have a nice pot roast I’m cooking.”
The thought of going back to her own solitary apartment had been upsetting Gertrude, and she quickly accepted the offer. It would be good to talk about Edna tonight with the other person who’d been her friend. She wanted to express to Gana what a crying shame it was that neither of the doctors had come to the Mass, although at least Dr. Fukhito had sent flowers. Maybe talking it out with Gana would help her to think clearly and she’d be able to get a handle on that thought which kept buzzing around inside her head—about something that Edna had said to her.
She said good-bye to Gana and Father Durkin, got into her car, turned on the ignition and released the brake. Dr. Highley’s face loomed in her mind: those big, fishlike, cold eyes. Oh, he’d been nice enough to her Tuesday night, giving her the pill to calm her down and what-have-you. But there was something funny about him that night. Like when he went to get her a drink of water, she’d started to follow him. She didn’t want him waiting on her. He’d turned on the water tap, then gone into the bedroom. From the hall she’d seen him take out his handkerchief and start to open Edna’s night-table drawer.
Then that nice Dr. Carroll had started to walk down the hall and Dr. Highley had closed the drawer, stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket and backed up so it looked like he was just standing in the bedroom doorway.
Gertrude had let Dr. Carroll pass her, then slipped back into the living room. She didn’t want them to think she was trying to overhear what they were saying. But if Dr. Highley wanted something from that drawer, why didn’t he just say so and get it? And why on earth would he open the drawer holding a handkerchief over his fingers? Certainly he didn’t think Edna’s apartment was too dirty for him to touch. Why, it was immaculate!
Dr. Highley always was a strange man. Truth to tell, like Edna, she’d always been a little afraid of him. No way would she agree to take over Edna’s job if it was offered to her. Her mind decided on that point, Gertrude steered the car off the cemetery road and onto Forest Avenue.
♦49♦
The lifeless body of Vangie Lewis was placed on the slab in the autopsy room of the Valley County Medical Examiner. His face impassive, Richard watched as his assistant removed the silk caftan that was to have been Vangie’s burial robe. What had seemed soft and natural in the gentle light of the funeral parlor now resembled a department-store mannequin, features with a total absence of life.
Vangie’s blond hair had been carefully coiffed to flow loose on her shoulders. Now the hair spray had begun to harden, separating the hairs into thin, straw-like groups. Fleetingly, Richard remembered that St. Francis Borgia had given up a life at court and entered a monastery after viewing the decaying body of a once-beautiful queen.
Sharply, he pulled his mind to the medical problem at hand. He had missed something about Vangie’s body on Tuesday afternoon. He was sure of that. It had something to do with her legs or feet. He would concentrate his attention there.
Fifteen minutes later he found what he was seeking: a two-inch scratch on Vangie’s left foot. He had dismissed it because he’d been so involved with the cyanide burns and the fetus.
That scratch was fresh. There was no sign of healing skin. That was what had bothered him. Vangie’s foot had been scratched shortly before her death, and Charley had found a piece of the cloth from the dress she was wearing when she died protruding from a sharp implement in the garage.
Richard turned to his assistant. “The lab is supposed to be finished with the clothes Mrs. Lewis was wearing when we brought her in. Will you please get them and dress her in them again. Call me when she’s ready.”
Back in his office, he scribbled on a pad: Shoes Vangie was wearing when found. Sensible walking shoes, cut fairly high on sides. Could not have been wearing them when foot was scratched.
He began to examine the notes he’d made during the night. The Berkeley baby. He was going to talk to Jim Berkeley, get him to admit that the baby was adopted.
But what would that prove?
Nothing of itself, but it would begin the investigation. Once that admission was made, the whole Westlake Maternity Concept would be exposed as a gigantic fraud.
Would anyone kill to prevent that fraud from being exposed?
He needed to see Dr. Salem’s medical records on Vangie Lewis. By now, Scott must have reached Dr. Salem’s office. Quickly, he dialed Scott. “Have you spoken to Salem’s nurse?”
“Yes, and also to his wife. They’re both terribly broken up. Both swear he had no history of high blood pressure or dizziness. No personal problems, no money problems, a full schedule of lecturing for the next six months. So I say, forget both the suicide and the accidental-fall angles.”
“How about Vangie Lewis? What did the nurse know?”
“Dr. Salem asked her to get out Vangie’s file yesterday morning in his office. Then, just before he left for his plane, he made a long-distance phone call.”
“That might have been the one to me.”
“Possibly. But the nurse said that he told her he had other long-distance calls to make, but he’d use his credit card from the airport after he checked in for his flight. Apparently he had a thing about getting to the airport with a lot of time to spare.”
“Is she sending Vangie’s file to us? I want to see it.”
“No, she’s not.” Scott’s voice hardened. “Dr. Salem took it with him. She saw him put it in his attaché case. That case was found in his room. But the Lewis file wasn’t in it. And get this: After Dr. Salem left, Chris Lewis phoned his office. Said he had to talk to Salem. The nurse told him where Dr. Salem would be staying in New York, even to giving him the room number. I’ll tell you something, Richard: by the end of the day I expect to be swearing out a warrant for Lewis’ arrest.”
“You mean you think there was something in that file that Chris Lewis would kill to get? I find that hard to believe.”
“Someone wanted that file,” Scott said. “That’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”
Richard hung up the phone. Someone wanted the file. The medical file. Who would know what was in it that might be threatening?
A doctor.
Was Katie right in her suspicions about the psychiatrist? What about Edgar Highley? He’d come to Valley County with the imprimatur of the Westlake name, a name respected in New Jersey medical circles.
Impatiently, Richard searched on his desk for the slip of paper Marge had given him with the names of the two patients who had filed malpractice suits against Edgar Highley.
Anthony Caldwell, Old Country Lane, Peapack.
Anna Horan, 415 Walnut Street, Ridgefield Park.
Turning on the intercom, he asked Marge to try to phone both people.
Marge came in a few minutes later. “Anthony Caldwell is no longer at that address. He moved to Michigan last year. I got a neighbor on the phone. She told me that his wife died of a tubal pregnancy and that he filed suit against the doctor, but it was dismissed. She was anxious to talk about it. Said Mrs. Caldwell had been told by two other doctors that she’d never conceive, but that as soon as she started the Westlake Maternity Concept program she became pregnant. But she was terribly sick all the time and finally died in her fourth month.”
“That gives me enough information for the moment,” Richard said. “We’re going to subpoena all the hospital records. What about Mrs. Horan?”
“I caught her husband home.
He’s a law student at Rutgers. Says she’s working as a computer programmer. Gave me her phone number at the job. Shall I get her for you now?”
“Yes, please.”
Marge picked up Richard’s phone, dialed and asked for Mrs. Anna Horan. A moment later, she said, “Mrs. Horan, one moment please. Dr. Carroll is calling.”
Richard took the phone. “Mrs. Horan.”
“Yes.” There was a lilting inflection in her voice, an accent he could not place.
“Mrs. Horan, you filed a malpractice suit last year against Dr. Edgar Highley. I wonder if I might ask you some questions about that case. Are you free to talk?”
The voice on the other phone became agitated. “No . . . not here.”
“I understand. But it’s urgent. Would it be possible for you to stop by my office after work today and talk with me?”
“Yes . . . all right.” Clearly, the woman wanted to get off the phone.
Richard gave the office address and offered directions, but was interrupted.
“I know how to get to you . . . . I’ll be there by five thirty.”
The connection was broken. Richard looked at Marge and shrugged. “She’s not happy about it, but she’s coming in.”
It was nearly noon. Richard decided to go to the courtroom where Katie was trying the Odendall case and see if she’d have lunch with him. He wanted to ventilate his thoughts about Edgar Highley. Katie had interviewed him. What had her reaction been? Would she agree that maybe there was something wrong about the Westlake Maternity Concept—either a baby ring or a doctor who took criminal chances with his patients’ lives?
When he got to the courtroom, it was deserted except for Katie, who was still at the prosecutor’s table.
Preoccupied with her notes, she barely looked up when he came over to her. At his suggestion of lunch, she shook her head.
“Richard, I’m up to my eyes in this. Those skunks have retracted their confession. Now they’re trying to say someone else set the fires, and they’re such convincing liars I swear the jury is falling for it. I’ve got to work on the cross-examination.” Her eyes went back to her notes.
Richard studied her. Her usually olive skin was deadly pale. Her eyes when she’d looked up at him had been heavy and clouded. He noticed the tissue wrapped around her finger. Gently, he reached over and unwound it.
Katie looked up. “What . . . oh, that darn thing. It must be deep. It’s been bleeding off and on all morning. I needed that.”
Richard studied the cut. Released from the tissue, it began to flow rapidly. Pressing the tissue over the cut, he reached for a rubber band and wound it above the cut. “Leave this on for about twenty minutes. That should stop it. Have you been having any clotting problems, Katie?”
“Yes, some. But oh, Richard, I can’t talk about it now. This case is running away from me and I feel so lousy.” Her voice broke.
The courtroom was empty except for the two of them. Richard reached down and put his arms around her. He hugged her head against his chest and put his lips on her hair. “Katie, I’m going to clear out now. But wherever you go this weekend, do some thinking. Because I’m throwing my hat in the ring. I want you. I want to take care of you. If there’s someone you’re seeing now, tell him he’s got stiff competition, because whoever he is, he’s not watching out for you. If it’s the past that’s holding you, I’m going to try to break that hold.”
He straightened up. “Now go ahead and win your case. You can do it. And for God’s sake, take it easy this weekend. Monday, I’m going to need your input on an angle I see developing in the Lewis case.”
All morning she’d felt so cold—so desperately, icy cold. Even the long-sleeved wool dress hadn’t helped. Now, so close to Richard, the warmth of his body communicated itself to her. As he turned to leave, she impulsively grasped his hand and held it against her face. “Monday,” she said.
“Monday,” he agreed, and left the courtroom.
♦50♦
Before they left the garden apartment complex where Edna had lived, Charley and Phil rang the Krupshaks’ doorbell. Gana had just returned from the funeral.
“We’re finished with our investigation in the apartment,” Charley told her. “You’re free to enter it.” He showed her the note Edna had left. “I have to check on whether this constitutes a will, but all that stuff isn’t worth a thousand dollars, so my guess is that we’ll return that jewelry to you, and you and Mrs. Fitzgerald can divide it and the furniture. At least, you can look it over and decide it between yourselves; but don’t remove anything yet.”
The two investigators returned to the office and went directly to the lab, where they turned in the contents of the vacuum bag, the plant that had been on the windowsill and the traces of earth they had removed from the ground. “Run these through right away,” Phil directed. “This stuff gets top priority.”
Scott was waiting for them in his office. At the news that Chris had been in the vicinity of Edna’s apartment on Tuesday night, he grunted with satisfaction. “Lewis seems to have been all over the map this week,” he said, “and wherever he’s been someone has died. I sent Rita over to New York this morning with a picture of Chris Lewis. Two bellmen positively identify him as being in the lobby of the Essex House around five o’clock. I’m putting out an APB for him and swearing out a warrant for his arrest.”
The phone rang. Impatiently, he reached for it and identified himself. Then his expression changed. “Put her on,” he said quickly. Holding his hand over the speaker, he said, “Chris Lewis’ girlfriend is calling from Florida . . . Hello, yes, this is the Prosecutor.” He paused. “Yes, we are looking for Captain Lewis. Do you know where he is?”
Charley and Phil exchanged glances. Scott’s forehead furrowed as he listened. “Very well. He’ll be on the plane with you arriving in Newark at seven P.M. I’m very glad to know that he’s surrendering voluntarily. If he wishes to consult with a lawyer, he may want to have one here. Thank you.”
He hung up the phone. “Lewis is coming in,” he said. “Well crack this case open tonight.
♦51♦
Through the long, sleepless night, Edgar Highley rationalized the problem of the stolen bag. It might never show up. If it had been abandoned after the thief went through it, the odds were he’d never see it again. Few people would take the trouble to try to return it. More than likely they’d simply keep the bag and throw out the contents.
Suppose the bag were recovered intact by the New York police? His name and the address of the hospital were inside it. If the police phoned him, they’d probably ask for a list of the contents. He’d simply mention some standard drugs, a few instruments and several patients’ files. A medical file with the name VANGIE LEWIS on the tab would mean nothing to them. They probably wouldn’t bother to study it. They’d just assume it was his. If they asked about the shoe and the bloodstained paperweight, he would deny any knowledge of them; he’d point out that obviously, the thief must have put them there.
It would be all right. And tonight the last risk would be removed. At five A.M. he gave up trying to sleep; showered, standing under the hot needle spray nearly ten minutes until the bathroom was filled with steam; wrapped himself in a heavy ankle-length robe and went down to the kitchen. He was not going in to the office until noon, and he’d make his hospital rounds just before that. Until then, he’d go over his research notes. Yesterday’s patient would be his new experiment. But he hadn’t yet chosen the donor.
♦52♦
At four o’clock, Richard, Scott, Charley and Phil studied the body of Vangie Lewis, now dressed in the clothes in which she had died. The scrap of flowered material that had been found on the prong in the garage exactly fitted the tear near the hem of her dress. The panty hose on her left foot showed a two-inch slash directly over the fresh cut.
“No trace of blood on the hosiery,” Richard said. “She was already dead when her foot caught on the prong.”
“How high was the shelf that prong
was on?” Scott asked.
Phil shrugged. “About two feet from the floor.”
“Which means that someone carried Vangie Lewis in through the garage, laid her on her bed and tried to give the appearance of a suicide,” Scott said.
“Without question,” Richard agreed. But he was frowning. “How tall is Chris Lewis?” he asked.
Scott shrugged. “He’s a big one. Maybe six feet four. Why?”
“Let’s try something. Wait a minute.” Richard left the room, returning with a ruler. Carefully, he marked the wall at heights of two, three and four feet from the floor. “If we assume Chris Lewis was the one who carried Vangie in, I suggest that she would not have been scratched by that prong.” He turned to Phil. “You’re sure the shelf was two feet off the ground?”
Phil shrugged. “Within an inch.” Charley nodded in agreement.
“All right. I’m six feet two.” Gently, Richard put one arm under the dead woman’s neck, the other under her knees. Picking her up, he walked over to the wall. “Look where her foot touches. She was small. It wouldn’t have been grazed by any object lower than three feet on the shelf if she was carried by a tall man. On the other hand . . .” He walked over to Phil. “How tall are you . . . About five feet ten?”
“Just about.”
“All right. Chris Lewis has over six inches on you. Take her and see where her foot falls when you hold her.”
Gingerly, Phil accepted the body and walked by the wall. Vangie’s foot trailed against the first mark Richard had made. Quickly, Phil laid her back on the slab. Scott shook his head. “Inconclusive. Impossible to figure. Maybe he was bending over, trying to hold her away from him.” He turned to the attendant. “We’ll want those clothes as evidence. Take good care of them. Get some photos of the cut, the stocking and the dress.”