The Cradle Will Fall

  “Wait,” Dr. Highley commanded. He said to Katie, “As you will see, all my patients are served fare that compares favorably with the food in a first-class restaurant. I think one of the abiding wastes in hospitals is the tons of institutional food that are thrown out daily while patients’ families bring in CARE packages from home.” He frowned. “However, I think I would prefer if you did not eat dinner tonight. I’ve come to believe that the longer a patient fasts before surgery, the less likelihood she will experience discomfort after it.”

  “I’m not at all hungry,” Katie said.

  “Fine.” He nodded to the attendant. She picked up the tray and hurried out.

  “I’ll leave you now,” Dr. Highley told Katie. “You will take the sleeping pill.”

  Her nod was noncommittal.

  At the door he paused. “Oh, I regret, your phone apparently isn’t working. The repairman will take care of it in the morning. Is there anyone you expect to call you here tonight? Or perhaps you’ll be having a visitor?”

  “No. No calls or visitors. My sister is the only one who knows I’m here, and she’s at the opera tonight.” He smiled. “I see. Well, good night, Mrs. DeMaio, and please relax. You can trust me to take care of you.”

  “I’m sure I can.”

  He was gone. She leaned back on the pillow, closing her eyes. She was floating somewhere; her body was drifting, drifting like . . .

  “Mrs. DeMaio.” A young voice was apologetic. Katie opened her eyes. “What . . . oh, I must have dozed.” It was Nurse Renge. She was carrying a tray with a pill in a small paper cup. “You’re to take this now. It’s the sleeping pill Dr. Highley ordered. He said I was to stay and be sure you took it.” Even with Dr. Highley gone, the girl seemed nervous. “It always makes patients mad when we have to wake them up to give them a sleeping pill, but that’s the way it works in the hospital.”

  “Oh.” Katie reached for the pill, put it in her mouth, gulped down water from her carafe.

  “Would you like to get settled in bed now? I’ll turn down your covers for you.”

  Katie realized she’d been sleeping on top of the spread. She nodded, pulled herself up and went into the bathroom. There she removed the sleeping pill from under her tongue. Some of it had already dissolved, but she managed to spit out most of it. No way, she thought. I’d rather be awake than have nightmares. She splashed water on her face, brushed her teeth and returned to the bedroom. She felt so weak, so vague.

  The nurse helped her into bed. “You really are tired, aren’t you? Well, I’ll tuck you in, and I’m sure you’ll have a good night’s sleep. Just push the buzzer if you need me for anything.”

  “Thank you.” Her head was so heavy. Her eyes felt glued together.

  Nurse Renge went over and pulled down the shade. “It’s started to snow again, but it’s going to change to rain. It’s a wicked night, a good night to be in bed.”

  “Open the drapes and raise the window just about an inch, won’t you?” Katie murmured. “I always like fresh air in my bedroom.”

  “Certainly. Shall I turn off the light now, Mrs. DeMaio?”

  “Please.” She didn’t want to do anything except sleep.

  “Good night, Mrs. DeMaio.”

  “Good night. Oh, what time is it, please?”

  “Just eight o’clock.”

  “Thank you.”

  The nurse left. Katie closed her eyes. Minutes passed. Her breathing became even. At eight thirty, she was not aware of the faint sound that was caused when the handle on the door from the living room of the suite began to turn.

  ♦55♦

  Gertrude and the Krupshaks lingered over Gana’s potroast dinner. Gratefully, Gertrude acceded to Gana’s urgings to have seconds, to have a generous slice of homemade chocolate cake.

  “I don’t usually eat this much,” she apologized, “but I haven’t swallowed a morsel since we found poor Edna.”

  Gana nodded soberly. Her husband picked up his coffee cup and dessert plate. “The Knicks are playing,” he announced. “I’m gonna watch.” His blunt tone was not ungracious. He settled himself in the living room and switched on the dial.

  Gana sighed. “The Knicks . . . the Mets . . . the Giants . . . One season after the other. But on the other hand, he’s here. I can look across the room and there he is. Or if I come home from bingo, I know I’m not going into an empty place, like poor Edna always had to.”

  “I know.” Gertrude thought of her own solitary home, then reflected on her oldest granddaughter. “Gran, why not come to dinner?” or “Gran, are you going to be home Sunday? We thought we’d drop in to say hello.” She could have it a lot worse.

  “Maybe we should go in and take a look at Edna’s place,” Gana said. “I don’t want to rush you . . . I mean, have more coffee, or another piece of cake . . .”

  “No. Oh, no. We should go in. You kind of hate to do it, but it’s something you can’t avoid.”

  “I’ll get the key.”

  They hurried across the courtyard. While they were at the table, the wet, cold combination of snow and rain had once again begun to fall. Gana dug her chin into her coat collar. She thought of Edna’s lovely imitation-leopard coat. Maybe she could take it home tonight. It was hers.

  Inside the apartment, they became quiet. The fingerprinting powder the detectives had used was still visible on the tabletops and door handles. Inadvertently, they both stared at the spot where Edna’s crumpled body had lain.

  “There’s blood on the radiator,” Gana muttered. “Gus’ll probably repaint it.”

  “Yes.” Gertrude shook herself. Get this over with. She knew her granddaughter’s taste. Besides the velour couch, Nan would love those matching chairs, the tall-backed ones with mahogany arms and legs. One was a rocker, the other a straight chair. She remembered Edna’s telling her that when she was a child, they’d been covered in blue velvet with a delicate leaf pattern. She’d had them redone inexpensively and always sighed, “They never looked the same.”

  If Nan had them re-covered in velvet again, they’d be beautiful. And that piecrust table. Altman’s had copies of that in the reproduction gallery. Cost a fortune, too. Of course, this one was pretty nicked, but Nan’s husband could refinish anything. Oh, Edna, Gertrude thought. You were smarter than most of us. You knew the value of things.

  Gana was at the closet removing the leopard coat. “Edna loaned me this last year,” she said. “I was going to a social with Gus. I love it.”

  It did not take them long to finish sharing the contents of the apartment. Gana had little interest in the furniture; what Gertrude did not want she was giving to the Salvation Army; but she was delighted when Gertrude suggested she take the silver plate and good china. They agreed that Edna’s wardrobe would also go to the Salvation Army. She had been shorter and heavier than either of them.

  “I guess that’s it,” Gana sighed. “Except for the jewelry, and the police will give that back to us pretty soon. You get the ring, and she left the pin to me.”

  The jewelry. Edna had kept it in the night-table drawer. Gertrude thought of Tuesday night. That was the drawer Dr. Highley had started to open.

  “That reminds me,” she said: “we never did look there. Let’s make sure we didn’t forget anything.” She pulled it open. She knew that the police had removed the jewelry box. But the deep drawer was not empty. A scuffed moccasin lay at the bottom of it.

  “Well, as I live and breathe,” Gana sighed. “Now, can you tell me why Edna would save that thing?” She picked it up and held it to the light. It was out of shape; the heel was run down; white stains on the sides suggested it had been exposed to salted snow.

  “That’s it!” Gertrude cried. “That’s what had me mixed up.”

  At Gana’s mystified expression, she tried to explain. “Mrs. DeMaio asked me if Edna called one of the doctors Prince Charming. And that’s what confused me. Of course she didn’t. But Edna did tell me how Mrs. Lewis wore terrible old moccasins for her appointmen
ts. Why, she pointed them out to me only a couple of weeks ago when Mrs. Lewis was leaving. Edna said that she always kidded Mrs. Lewis. The left shoe was too loose, and Mrs. Lewis was always walking out of it. Edna used to tease Mrs. Lewis that she must be expecting Prince Charming to pick up her glass slipper.”

  “But Prince Charming wasn’t Cinderella’s boyfriend,” Gana protested. “He was in the ‘Sleeping Beauty’ fairy tale.”

  “That’s what I mean. I told Edna that she had it mixed up. She just laughed and said that Mrs. Lewis told her the same thing, but that her mother told her the story that way and it was good enough for her.”

  Gertrude reflected. “Mrs. DeMaio was so anxious when she asked about that Prince Charming talk. And Wednesday night—I wonder: could Mrs. Lewis’ shoe be what Dr. Highley wanted from this drawer? Is that possible? You know, I’ve half a mind to go to Mrs. DeMaio’s office and talk to her, or at least leave a message for her. Somehow I just feel I shouldn’t wait till Monday.”

  Gana thought of Gus, who wouldn’t have his eyes off the set until nearly midnight. Her acquisitive desire for excitement surged. She’d never been in the Prosecutor’s office. “Mrs. DeMaio asked me whether Edna kept her mother’s old shoe for sentimental reasons,” she said. “I’ll bet she was talking about this moccasin. Tell you what: I’ll drive over there with you. Gus’ll never know I’m gone.”

  ♦56♦

  Jim Berkeley parked his car in the courthouse lot and went into the main lobby. The directory showed that the Medical Examiner’s office was on the second floor in the old wing of the building. He had seen the expression on Richard Carroll’s face last night when he’d looked at the baby. Anger and resentment had made him want to say, “So the baby doesn’t look like us. So what?” But it would have been stupid to do that. Worse, it would have been useless.

  After several wrong turns in the labyrinth of the building, he found Richard’s office. The secretarial desk was empty, but Richard’s door was open, and he came out immediately when he heard the reception-area door snap shut. “Jim, it’s good of you to come.” Obviously, he was trying to be friendly, Jim thought. He was trying to make this seem a casual meeting. His own greeting was reserved and cautious. They went inside. Richard eyed him. Jim stared back impassively. There was none of the easy humor of last night’s dinner.

  Obviously, Richard got the message. His manner became businesslike. Jim stiffened.

  “Jim, we’re investigating Vangie Lewis’ death. She was a patient at Westlake Maternity Clinic. That’s where your wife had the baby.”

  Jim nodded.

  Richard was obviously picking his words carefully. “We are disturbed at some problems that we see coming out of our investigation. Now, I want to ask you some questions—and I swear to you that your answers will remain in this room. But you can be of tremendous help to us, if—”

  “If I tell you that Maryanne is adopted. Is that it?”

  “Yes.”

  The anger drained from Jim. He thought of Maryanne. Whatever the cost, she was worth having. “No, she is not adopted. I was at her birth. I filmed it. She has a small birthmark on her left thumb. It shows in those pictures.”

  “It is quite unlikely for two brown-eyed parents to have a green-eyed child,” Richard said flatly. Then he stopped. “Are you the baby’s father?” he asked quietly.

  Jim stared down at his hands. “If you mean would Liz have had an affair with another man? No. I’d stake my life and my soul on that.”

  “How about artificial insemination?” Richard asked. “Dr. Highley is a fertility expert.”

  “Liz and I discussed that possibility,” Jim said. “We both rejected it years ago.”

  “Might Liz have changed her mind and not told you? It’s not that unusual anymore. There are some fifteen thousand babies born every year in the United States by that means.”

  Jim reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. Flipping it open, he showed Richard two pictures of Liz, himself and the baby. In the first one, Maryanne was an infant; her eyes were almost shut. The second was a recent Kodachrome. The contrast between the skin tone and eye color of the parents and the baby was unmistakable.

  Jim said, “The year before Liz became pregnant, we learned that it was almost impossible for us to adopt. Liz and I discussed artificial insemination. We both decided against it, but I was more emphatic than she Maryanne had light brown hair when she was born, and blue eyes. A lot of babies start out having blue eyes and then they turn the parents’ color. So it’s just the last few months that it’s become obvious that something is wrong. Not that I care. That baby is everything to us.” He looked at Richard. “My wife won’t even tell a social lie. She’s the most honest person I’ve ever known in my life. Last month I decided to make it easy for her. I said that I’d been wrong about artificial insemination, that I could see why people went ahead with it.”

  “What did she say?” Richard asked.

  “She knew what I meant, of course. She said that if I thought she could make a decision like that and not tell me, I didn’t understand our relationship.

  “I apologized to her, swore I didn’t mean that; went through hell trying to reassure her. Finally, she believed me.” He stared at the picture. “But of course, I know she was lying,” he blurted out.

  “Or else she wasn’t aware of what Highley did to her,” Richard said flatly.

  ♦57♦

  Dannyboy Duke zigzagged across Third Avenue, racing toward Fifty-fifth and Second, where he had the car parked. The woman had missed her wallet just as he got on the escalator. He’d heard her scream, “That man, the dark-haired one—he just robbed me.”

  He’d managed to slide through the wall of women on Alexander’s main floor, but that bitch came rushing down the escalator after him, shouting and pointing as he went out the door. The security guard would probably chase him.

  If he could just get to the car. He couldn’t ditch the wallet. It was stuffed with hundred-dollar bills. He’d seen them, and he needed a fix.

  It had been a good idea to go into Alexander’s fur department. Women brought cash to Alexander’s. It took too long to get a check or credit card cleared. He’d found that out when he worked as a stock boy there while he was still in high school.

  Tonight he’d worn a coat that made him look like a stock boy. Nobody had paid any attention to him. The woman had one of those big, open pocketbooks; she’d held it by one strap as she rummaged through the coat rack. It had been easy to grab her wallet.

  Was he being followed? He didn’t dare look back. He’d call too much attention to himself. Better to stay against the sides of the buildings. Everyone was hurrying. It was so lousy cold. He could afford a fix; plenty of fixes now.

  And in a minute he’d be in the car. He wouldn’t be a man running in the street. He’d drive away, over the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge, and be home in Jackson Heights. He’d get his fix.

  He looked back. No one running. No cops. Last night had been so lousy. The doorman had almost grabbed him when he broke into that doctor’s car. And what did he get for his risk? No drugs in the bag. A medical file, a messy paperweight and an old shoe, for Christ sake.

  The pocketbook he’d grabbed later from the old lady. Ten lousy bucks. He’d barely been able to get enough stuff to tide him over today. The pocketbook and bag were in the back seat of the car. He’d have to get rid of them.

  He was at the car. He opened it, slipped in. Never, never, no matter how bad off he was, would he get rid of the car. Cops don’t expect you to drive away. If you’re spotted, they check the subway stations.

  He put the key into the ignition, turned on the engine. Even before he saw the flashing dome light, he heard the siren of the police car as it raced the wrong way up the block. He tried to pull out, but the squad car cut him off. A cop, his hand on the butt of his pistol, jumped out. The headlights were blinding Danny.

  The cop yanked open his door, looked in and removed the ignition key. “Well, D
annyboy,” he said. “You’re still at it, right? Don’t you never learn any new tricks? Now get the hell out, keep your goddamned hands where I can see them and brace so I can read you the goddamned Miranda. You’re what—a three-time loser? I figure you got ten to fifteen coming, we get lucky with a judge.”

  ♦58♦

  The plane circled over Newark. The descent was bumpy. Chris glanced at Joan. She was holding his hand tightly, but he knew it had nothing to do with flying. Joan was absolutely fearless in a plane. He’d heard her argue the point with people who hated to fly. “Statistically, you’re much safer in a plane than in a car, a train, a motorcycle or your bathtub,” she’d say.

  Her face was composed. She’d insisted they have a drink when cocktails were served. Neither one of them had wanted dinner, but they’d both had coffee. Her expression was serious but composed. “Chris,” she’d said, “I can bear anything except thinking that because of me Vangie committed suicide. Don’t worry about dragging me into this. You tell the truth when you’re questioned and don’t hold anything back.”

  Joan. If they ever got through this, they’d have a good life together. She was a woman. He still had so much to learn about her. He hadn’t even realized he could trust her with the simple truth. Maybe he’d gotten so used to shielding Vangie, from trying to avoid arguments. He had so much to learn about himself, let alone Joan.

  The landing was rough. Several passengers exclaimed as the plane bounced down. Chris knew the pilot had done a good job. There was a hell of a downwind. If it kept up, they’d probably close the airport.