“Just what we don’t need is an amateur sleuth involved with the case,” Billy commented as the elevator stopped at the sixteenth floor. But after two minutes of being in Alvirah and Willy’s home, like everyone else who had ever met them, he felt as if they’d been friends forever.
Willy Meehan reminded Billy of the pictures of his grandfather, a big man with snow white hair who had worked all his life as a cop. Alvirah, her hair freshly set, was wearing slacks and a cardigan sweater. Billy knew her clothes had not come out of a bargain basement, but still Alvirah’s outfit reminded him of the housekeeper for the people down the block who had some money.
He was surprised when Jennifer accepted the coffee Alvirah offered. It was not something they usually did, but he suspected that it would not be wise to make an enemy of Alvirah, who had already established on the phone that she was Zan Moreland’s good friend. And probably her defender, he thought.
I was right about that one, Billy said to himself a few minutes later as Alvirah emphasized the heartbreak she believed that Zan had been suffering since her son disappeared. “I’ve known all kinds,” Alvirah said emphatically, “and there are some things you can’t fake. The suffering I’ve seen in that girl’s eyes has made me want to cry.”
“Did she talk about Matthew very often?” Jennifer Dean asked, softly.
“Let’s put it this way, we never brought it up. I’m a contributing columnist for the New York Globe and at the time Matthew disappeared, I wrote a column begging whoever took him to understand the agony his parents were going through. I suggested that that person bring Matthew to a mall, and point out a security guard. Then tell the boy to close his eyes, count up to ten, then go up to the guard and tell him his name and the guard would find Mommy for him.”
“Matthew was only a little past three when he disappeared,” Billy objected. “Not every child that age can count up to ten.”
“I had read in the paper that his mother had said that hide-and-seek was the favorite game they played together. In fact, one of the times that Zan did talk about Matthew, she said that when she got the call that he was missing, she was praying that he had woken up and gotten out of the stroller himself and maybe thought he was playing hide-and-seek with Tiffany.” Alvirah paused, then added, “She told me that Matthew could count up to fifty. He was obviously a very bright child.”
“Did you see the photos of Zan Moreland taking Matthew out of the stroller on television or in the papers today, Mrs. Meehan?” Jennifer Dean asked.
“I saw the photos of a woman who looked like Zan taking the child out of the stroller,” Alvirah said carefully.
“Do you think that was Zan Moreland in those pictures, Mrs. Meehan?” Billy Collins asked.
“I wish you’d call me Alvirah. Everyone else does.”
She’s stalling for time, Collins thought.
“Let me put it this way,” Alvirah began. “It certainly looks as though the woman in those pictures is Zan. I don’t know nearly enough about technology because it’s going so fast these days. Maybe those pictures were altered. I do know that Zan Moreland is torn in two with missing her son. She was here last night and she was a basket case she was so upset. I know she has friends both here and abroad who invited her to visit them over the holidays. She stayed home by herself. She couldn’t bear to go out.”
“Do you know what other countries her friends live in?” Jennifer Dean asked, quickly.
“Well, they’re from the countries where her parents lived,” Alvirah said. “I know one of them is Argentina. Another one is in France.”
“And remember her parents were living in Italy when they were killed in that accident,” Willy chimed in.
Billy Collins knew that there was nothing more they could learn from Alvirah or Willy. They believe those pictures are of Zan Moreland, he thought as he got up to go, but they won’t admit it.
“Detective Collins,” Alvirah said, “before you leave, you must understand that if those photos really are Zan taking Matthew out of the stroller, she doesn’t know that she did it. I would swear to that.”
“Are you suggesting that she may be a split personality?” Collins asked.
“I’m not sure what I’m suggesting,” Alvirah said. “But I do know that Zan is not acting. In her mind she has lost her child. I know she’s spent money on private detectives and on psychics to try to find him. If she was playing a game, she wouldn’t have had to go that far, but she isn’t playing a game.”
“One more question, Mrs. Meehan — uh, Alvirah. Zan Moreland mentioned a priest, Fr. Aiden O’Brien. By any chance do you know him?”
“Oh, yes, he’s a dear friend. He’s a Franciscan friar at St. Francis of Assisi Church on Thirty-first Street. Zan happened to meet him here last night. She was just about ready to leave when he came in. He told her that he’d pray for her and I think that gave her some comfort.”
“She had never met him before that?”
“I don’t think so. Although I do know she stopped into St. Francis just before I was there on Monday evening to light a candle. Fr. O’Brien was hearing confessions that evening in the lower church.”
“Did Zan Moreland go to confession?” Billy asked.
“Oh, I don’t know, and of course I didn’t ask. But you might be interested to hear that I had my eye on some guy who I thought was acting funny. I mean he was kneeling in front of the Shrine of St. Anthony with his hands in his face. But the minute Fr. Aiden stepped out of the Reconciliation Room, he jumped up and didn’t take his eyes off Aiden until he was out of sight in the Friary.”
“Was Ms. Moreland still in church when this happened?”
“No,” Alvirah said, positively. “I only know she was there because yesterday morning I went back and asked to have a look at the tape on the security cameras. I wanted to see if I could spot that guy just in case he ever caused any trouble. I couldn’t pick him out in the crowd, but on the camera I did see Zan coming in. That would be about fifteen minutes before I got there. The security tapes showed that she only stayed a few minutes. The guy I was trying to get a look at left just before I did, but there was no way to pick him clearly out of the crowd that was coming into the church.”
“Did you think that was unusual for Ms. Moreland to pay a visit there?”
“No. The next day was Matthew’s birthday. I thought she might have wanted to light a candle to St. Anthony for him. He’s the saint people pray to when they’re missing something.”
“I see. Thank you both very much for your time,” Billy Collins said as he and Jennifer Dean got up to leave.
“Well, that didn’t get us very far,” Dean commented as they went down in the elevator.
“Maybe, maybe not. What we did find out is that Zan Moreland has friends in a number of countries. I want to see if she’s made any trips to any one of those countries since her son disappeared. We’ll get a subpoena and check her credit cards and bank accounts. And tomorrow we’ll go down and pay a visit to Fr. O’Brien at St. Francis of Assisi. Wouldn’t it be interesting if Zan Moreland went to confession to that priest? And if she did, I wonder what she had to say to him.”
“Billy, you’re Catholic,” Jennifer Dean protested. “I’m not, but I know that no priest will ever discuss what was said in the confessional.”
“No, he won’t, but when we question Zan Moreland again, maybe if we work her hard enough, she’ll break down and share her dirty little secrets with us.”
54
Matthew had never seen Glory cry, not even once. She had sounded real mad when she was talking on the phone, but after she slammed it down, she started to cry. Just like that. Then she looked at him and said, “Matty, we can’t hide like this any longer.”
He thought that meant that they’d be moving to a new place to live, and he wasn’t sure if he was glad or sorry. The room he slept in was big enough so that he could put all his trucks on the floor and move them one after the other just like he would see big trucks on the road at night wh
en he and Glory moved to a new house.
And there was a bunk bed and a table and chairs in that room that had been there when they moved in. Glory had told him that some other kids must have lived there because the table and chairs were just right for a kid his size to sit down and draw pictures.
Matthew loved to draw. Sometimes he would think about Mommy and draw a lady’s face on the paper. He never could get it to look just like her, but he always remembered her long hair and how it felt when it tickled his cheek, so he would always give the lady in his pictures long hair.
Sometimes he would take the bar of soap that smelled like Mommy from under the pillow and have it next to his hand on the table before he opened his box of crayons.
Maybe the next place they moved wouldn’t be as nice. He didn’t mind being locked in the big closet in this house when Glory left him alone. She always left the light on, and it was big enough for his trucks, and she always saved some new books for him to read until she got back.
Now Glory looked mad again. She said, “I wouldn’t put it past that old bag to make some excuse to come barging in here before Sunday. I’ve gotta remember to keep the bolt on the front door.”
Matthew didn’t know what to say. Glory wiped her face with the back of her hand. “Well, we just move up the schedule. I’ll let him know that tonight.” She walked over to the window. She always kept the shades down all the way and if she looked out, she did it by pushing the shade to one side.
She made a funny sound as if she couldn’t get her breath, then said, “That damn muffin jerk is driving by again. What’s she looking for?” Then she added, “You got her started, Matty. Go upstairs and stay in your room and make sure none of your trucks are ever downstairs again.”
Matthew went up to his room, sat down at the table, reached for his crayons, and began to cry.
55
Bartley Longe sat behind closed doors in his Park Avenue office, trying to talk himself into indignation at the rudeness of the detective who had, in effect, ordered him to put off any appointments he might have until they met.
But he could not conceal, even from himself, that he was frightened. Brittany’s father had kept his threat to go to the police. He couldn’t have them digging into his background again. That sexual harassment suit the receptionist had filed against him eight years ago hadn’t looked good in the newspapers.
The fact that he had been forced to settle for a lot of money had hurt him, financially and professionally. The receptionist had alleged that he’d become outraged when she rejected his advances and had slammed her against the wall, and that she had been in fear of her life. “His face had darkened with anger,” she had said to the cops. “He can’t stand rejection. I thought he would kill me.”
How was that going to sit with this cop when he does some digging into my background? Longe asked himself. Should I bring it up right away so that I seem straightforward? Brittany’s been missing nearly two years. The only way they’ll believe that I didn’t do something to her is if she turns up in Texas and visits her Daddy very, very soon.
Something else. Why hadn’t Kevin Wilson taken his call this morning? Surely he, or someone in his office, had seen Zan going into the station house with her lawyer. Surely Wilson had to be figuring that she’d probably be arrested, and if she was, how much time would she be able to put into his model apartments?
I need that job, Bartley Longe admitted. It’s a showcase for whoever gets it. Sure, I get enough business from the celebrities, but an awful lot of them drive a hard bargain. They say they’ll get a magazine to do a photo layout of their new homes, and that it would be free advertising for me. I don’t need that kind of free advertising.
I lost some of my big-money/old-money customers after that lousy publicity. If I’m involved in another scandal, I’ll lose more of them.
Why doesn’t Wilson call me back? In his letter when he asked me to bid for the job, he said it was of the utmost importance that I submit my plans as soon as possible because they were already behind schedule. But now, not a word from him.
The intercom on his telephone buzzed. “Mr. Longe, are you planning to go out after your meeting with Detective Johnson, or do you want me to send for something after he leaves?” Elaine asked.
“I don’t know,” Longe snapped. “I’ll decide after I see him.”
“Of course. Oh, Phyllis is calling. That means he must be here now.”
“Send him in.”
Nervously, Bartley Longe opened the top drawer in his desk and looked at the mirror he kept there. The small job that had been done on his face last year had been terrific, he comforted himself. It wasn’t obvious, but it got rid of the suggestion of a jowl that had begun to form below his chin. Having the touch of silver in his hair was exactly the right way to go as well. He had worked carefully on his distinguished exterior. He tugged at the sleeves of his Paul Stuart shirt so that the monogrammed cuff links were in place.
Then as Elaine Ryan tapped on the door and opened it with Detective Wally Johnson in tow, Bartley Longe stood up and, with a courtly smile, welcomed his unwelcome guest.
56
The minute Wally Johnson entered Longe’s office, he took an instant dislike to the man. Longe’s condescending smile reeked of superiority and disdain. His opening statement was that he was delaying a meeting with a very important client and hoped that whatever questions Detective Johnson had for him would not take more than fifteen minutes to complete.
“I hope not, either,” Johnson answered, “so let’s get right to the purpose of my visit. Margaret Grissom, whose stage name is Brittany La Monte, is missing. Her father is sure that something has happened to her or that she is in trouble. Her last known job was working for you as a hostess in your model apartments, and it is also known that she was having an intimate relationship with you and spent many weekends at your home in Litchfield.”
“She spent some weekends at my home in Litchfield because I was doing her a favor, introducing her to theatre people,” Longe contradicted. “As I told her father yesterday, none of them thought Brittany had that certain something, that almost indescribable spark that would make her a star. They all predicted that at best she would be doing low-budget commercials or independent films where she would not need a SAG or Equity card. In her ten or eleven years in New York, she had never managed to achieve either.”
“On that basis, you stopped inviting her to Litchfield?” Johnson asked.
“Brittany was beginning to see the big picture. At that point, she tried to turn our casual relationship into wedding bells. I have been married once to an aspiring actress and it cost me plenty. I have no intention of making that same mistake twice.”
“You told her that. How did she accept it?” Johnson asked.
“She made some very uncomplimentary remarks to me and stormed out.”
“Of your Litchfield home?”
“Yes. I might add that she took my Mercedes convertible with her. I would have filed charges, but I did receive a phone call from her telling me that she had parked it in the garage in my apartment building.”
Johnson watched as Bartley Longe’s face darkened with anger. “Exactly when was that, Mr. Longe?” he asked.
“Early June, so that would make it nearly two years ago?”
“Can you give me a more definite date?”
“It was the first weekend in June and she left late Sunday morning.”
“I see. Where is your apartment, Mr. Longe?”
“It is at 10 Central Park West.”
“Were you living there two years ago?”
“It has been my New York residence for eight years.”
“I see. And after that Sunday in early June nearly two years ago, have you ever seen or heard from Ms. La Monte again?”
“No, I have not. Nor did I care to either hear from or see her.”
Wally Johnson let a long minute pass before he spoke again. This guy is scared to death, he thought. He’s lying and he k
nows that I’m not going to stop looking for Brittany. Johnson also knew that he wouldn’t get more from Longe today.
“Mr. Longe, I’d like to have a list of the guests who would also have been at your home on the weekends that Brittany La Monte was there.”
“Of course. You must understand that I entertain frequently in Litchfield. Being a good host to the wealthy and to celebrities opens the door to many of them becoming very good clients. It is quite possible I will miss some names,” Longe said.
“I can understand that, but I would suggest you dig deep into your memory and give me a list by tomorrow morning at the latest. You have my card with my e-mail on it,” Johnson said as he rose to leave.
Longe stayed behind his desk, not even rising from his chair. Johnson deliberately walked over to the desk and reached out his hand, giving the designer no choice but to accept it.
As the detective suspected, Bartley Longe’s finely manicured hand was wringing wet.
On the way back to the precinct, Wally Johnson decided to make a detour and drive to the garage at 10 Central Park West. He got out of the car there and showed his badge to the attendant who was approaching him, a handsome young African-American. “No parking today,” he said. “I just want to ask a few questions.” He glanced at the nameplate the young man was wearing. “How long have you worked here, Danny?”
“Eight years, sir, since the doors opened,” Danny answered proudly.
Johnson was surprised. “I didn’t take you for more than your early twenties.”
“Thanks. A lot of people say that.” With a smile, Danny added, “It’s a mixed blessing. I’m thirty-one, sir.”
“Then of course you know Mr. Bartley Longe?”
Johnson was not surprised to see the change in Danny’s formerly pleasant expression as he confirmed that he knew Mr. Longe.