I'll Walk Alone

  “Did you ever know a young woman who was a friend of his, Brittany La Monte?” Johnson asked.

  “Mr. Longe has many young women who are his friends,” Danny answered, hesitantly. “Different ones come in with him all the time.”

  “Danny, I have a feeling you remember Brittany La Monte.”

  “Yes, sir. I haven’t seen her in a while, but that’s not surprising.”

  “Why is that?” Johnson asked.

  “Well, sir, the last time she came here, she was in Mr. Longe’s convertible. I could tell she was mad as hell.” Danny’s lips twitched. “She had Mr. Longe’s toupees and wigs with her. She had cut patches of hair out of all six of them. While we stood there, she Scotch-taped them over the wheel and the dashboard and the hood so no one could miss them. There was hair all over the front seat. Then she said, ‘See you guys,’ and marched off.”

  “What happened then?”

  “The next day, Mr. Longe came in boiling mad. The manager had put his wigs and toupees in a bag for him. Mr. Longe had a baseball cap on and we guessed that Miss La Monte had rounded up his whole collection. Between us, sir, Mr. Longe isn’t very well liked in this garage, so we all got a good laugh out of it.”

  “I’ll bet you did,” Wally Johnson agreed. “He looks like the kind who stiffs you at Christmas.”

  “Forget Christmas, sir. He never heard of it. But his tip when he picks up his car is one dollar, if you’re lucky.” Danny’s expression became concerned. “I shouldn’t have said that, sir. I hope you won’t repeat it to Mr. Longe. I could lose my job.”

  “Danny, you don’t have to worry about that. You’ve been an immense help to me.” Wally Johnson began to get back in his car.

  Danny held the door for him. “Is Miss La Monte okay, sir?” he asked anxiously. “She was always really nice to us when she came in with Mr. Longe.”

  “I hope she is okay, Danny. Thanks a lot.”

  * * *

  Toby Grissom was sitting at Johnson’s desk when he got back to the precinct.

  “Did you have that Big Mac, Mr. Grissom?” Johnson asked. “Yes, I did. What did you find out from that big phony about Glory?”

  “I found out that your daughter and Mr. Longe had a blowup and she drove his convertible to his apartment here in the city and left it parked there. He claims that he never saw her again. The young man in the garage confirmed that she never came after that, at least not to the garage.”

  “What does that tell you?” Grissom asked.

  “It tells me that they broke up for good. As I mentioned to you before, I’m going to get a list of as many of the other weekend guests as we can locate and see if any of them has heard from Brittany, or, as you call her, Glory. I’m also going to visit her roommates and find out exactly when she left that apartment. I promise you, Mr. Grissom, that I am going to follow this through to the end. And now, please, let me get you a ride to the airport and promise me that you’ll be in your doctor’s office tomorrow morning. As soon as you’re on your way, I’m going to call your daughter’s roommates and make an appointment to see them.”

  Leaning on the sides of the chair for support, Toby Grissom stood up. “I’ve got a feeling I’ll never see my girl again before I die. I’m going to trust you to keep your promise to me, Detective. I’ll see the doctor tomorrow.”

  They shook hands. With an attempt at a smile, Toby Grissom said, “All right. Let’s find my police escort to the airport. If I ask real nice, do you think he’ll turn the sirens on for me?”

  57

  On Thursday afternoon, after her breakdown in her office, Zan let Josh take her home. Emotionally exhausted, she went straight to bed, allowing herself a rare sleeping pill. On Friday morning, feeling heavy and drugged, she stayed in bed, arriving at the office at noon.

  “I thought I could handle it, Josh,” she said, as they sat at the desk and ate the turkey sandwiches he had ordered from the local delicatessen. Josh had brewed coffee in the coffeemaker, making it extra strong, as she had requested. She reached for her cup and sipped from it, savoring the flavor. “It’s a lot better than what Detective Collins served at the station house,” she said wryly.

  Then, seeing how concerned Josh was, she said, “Look, I know I fell apart yesterday, but I’ll be all right. I’ve got to be. Charley warned me not to talk to the media, and now I’m sure they’re twisting what I said about Matthew being alive just the way those detectives did when they questioned me. Maybe next time I’ll listen to him.”

  “Zan, I feel so useless. I just wish I could help you,” Josh said, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice. But there were still some questions he needed to ask, too. “Zan, do you think we should report the airplane ticket to Buenos Aires that was charged to your credit card? And the clothes at Bergdorf’s and all the stuff that was ordered as if we got the job for the Carlton Place apartments?”

  “And the fact that my bank account has been virtually cleaned out?” Zan asked. Then she added, “Because you don’t believe that I didn’t order any of it, or have any part in those transactions, do you? I know that. And I know Alvirah and Willy and Charley Shore all believe that I’m mentally ill, and that’s putting it kindly.”

  She did not give Josh a chance to answer. “You see, Josh, I don’t blame you a bit. I don’t blame Ted for what he’s saying about me, I don’t even blame Tiffany who, I just learned from the detectives, thinks that I sedated her so that she would fall into a drugged sleep on a blanket in Central Park, and I could take my own child to that damn town house and leave him tied up and gagged in the storeroom — unless, of course, I’d already murdered him.”

  “Zan, I love you. Alvirah and Willy love you. And Charley Shore wants to protect you,” Josh said, feebly.

  “The saddest part is that I know all that is true. You, Alvirah, and Willy love me. Charley Shore wants to protect me. But none of you believe that someone who looks like me has taken my child, and that person, or whoever hired her, is trying to destroy my business as well.

  “To answer your question, I don’t think we should give these detectives any more so-called evidence that I’m a mental case to help them when they continue their inquisition.”

  Josh looked as if he wished he could deny what she had told him, but Zan could see that he was honest enough not to try. Instead she waited until she had finished her coffee, silently handed him the cup to refill, and then waited until he came back before she spoke. “I was obviously in no state to talk to Kevin Wilson when I got back here yesterday, but I heard what he said to you. Do you think he really means it, that he’ll take on the obligation of paying our suppliers?”

  “Yes, I do,” Josh answered, relieved to get onto a safer subject.

  “That’s more than decent of him,” Zan said. “I can’t imagine what the media would have made of it, if he’d said in public that he had never okayed any of the designs I had submitted. In all, the orders amount to tens of thousands of dollars. He wanted top-of-the-line and we gave him top-of-the-line.”

  “Kevin said he liked our—I mean your—plans better than Bartley Longe’s,” Josh told her.

  “Our plans,” Zan emphasized. “Josh, you’re gifted. You know that. You’re like me nine years ago when I started working for Bartley Longe. You had a lot of input when I was discussing those model apartments with you.”

  She picked up the second half of her sandwich, then put it down. “Josh, you know what I think is going to happen? I may be arrested for kidnapping Matthew. I believe in my heart he is alive, but if I am wrong I can assure you that the state of New York won’t have to prosecute me for his murder to put me in prison. Because if Matthew is dead, my life will be a prison anyway.”

  58

  On Friday morning, the first thing to hit Ted as he walked into the office was bad news. Rita Moran was waiting for him, her expression tight with anger and frustration. “Ted, Melissa is calling in the media to her apartment to announce she is offering five million dollars for Matthew’s sa
fe return. Her assistant phoned to tip us off. She didn’t want you to be blindsided. Bettina did say Melissa is making it clear she believes Matthew is dead, but said that the uncertainty is killing you.”

  Sarcastically Rita added, “She did it for you, Ted.”

  “Good God,” Ted shouted. “I told her, I begged her, I implored her…”

  “I know,” Rita said. “But, Ted, keep something in mind. You can’t afford to lose Melissa Knight as a client. We just got a new estimate for repairing the plumbing in this building, and let me tell you, it’s a horror. Melissa and the friends she’s already brought in are keeping your head above water and if Jaime-boy does come through, we’ve got breathing space. I suggest you discount this white elephant of a building until you find a buyer, take the business loss, and concentrate on getting more clients like Melissa. Only be sure you don’t get that lady mad at you. You can’t afford it.”

  “I know I can’t. Thanks, Rita.”

  “I’m sorry, Ted, I know how much you have on your shoulders. But remember, we still have some terrific singers and actors and bands, who, when their big break comes, won’t forget how much you’ve done for their careers. So I suggest you call the witch when she’s finished offering her five million dollars and tell her how grateful you are and how much you love her.”

  59

  On Friday Penny Hammel drove past the Owens farmhouse slowly enough that she noticed the movement of the shade in the front window. That woman must have been right there and heard my van rattling down this bumpy road, she thought. What’s Gloria Evans got to hide in there? Why is every shade pulled down to the sill?

  Sure that she was still being watched, Penny deliberately made a U-turn instead of going as far as the dead end. In case the mystery woman has any doubts, let her know that I’ve got my eye on her, she thought. What’s she doing in there anyhow? It’s a gorgeous day, wouldn’t you think she’d want to be able to see it? And she claims she’s writing a book! I bet most writers don’t sit at the computer in the dark when the sun could be pouring in the window!

  Penny had made the detour impulsively while she was on her way into town. She wanted to pick up a few groceries and she also wanted to get out of Bernie’s way. He was in one of his Mr. Fixit moods, puttering around in his workshop in the basement. The only problem was that every time he finished a job like replacing the handle of a pot or gluing together the broken lid of the sugar bowl, he would yell for her to come down and see what a great job he’d done.

  I guess being alone in the truck so much of the time, he likes to have someone hear the sound of his voice, Penny mused as she turned onto Middletown Avenue. She hadn’t intended to drop in on Rebecca, but when she found a parking spot it was practically in front of Schwartz Real Estate and she could see her sitting at the desk.

  Why not? she decided as with quick steps she walked across the sidewalk and turned the handle on the door of the agency. “Bonjour, Madame Schwartz,” she boomed in her best imitation of a French accent. “I am here to buy that beeg, ugly McMansion on Turtle Avenue that has been on the market for two years. I wish to tear it down because it is an eyesore. I am carrying four million Euros in the trunk of my limousine. Do we have what you Americans call a deal?”

  Rebecca laughed. “Very funny, but let me tell you something that is nothing short of a miracle. I have a buyer for Sy’s place.”

  “What about the tenant?” Penny demanded.

  “She has to be out within thirty days.”

  Penny realized that she felt a twinge of disappointment and that she actually had been having fun building up a mystery surrounding Gloria Evans. “Have you told Evans that?” she asked.

  “I did, and she is one unhappy lady. She hung up the phone on me. I told her I could show her at least five or six places that would be much more attractive and that she could use on a month-to-month basis so that she isn’t stuck with a year’s lease.”

  “And she hung up on you anyway?” Penny dropped into the chair nearest to Rebecca’s desk.

  “Yes. She was really upset.”

  “Rebecca, I just drove past Sy’s place. Have you been inside since she moved in?”

  “No. Remember, I told you that I drove by early the morning after she was supposed to arrive and saw her car in the carport, but I haven’t been inside.”

  “Well, maybe you should make an excuse to go in. Maybe you can knock on her door and apologize to her about the inconvenience of the sudden sale and tell her you’re sorry she’s so upset. If she doesn’t have the courtesy to invite you to come in, I’d say that it’s proof positive something is going on.”

  Warmed up to the subject, Penny searched her mind for possible reasons to spur Rebecca into taking action. “That would be a perfect place for distributing drugs,” she theorized. “Quiet country road. Dead-end street. No neighbors. Think about it. And if the cops ever raided her, who knows what might happen to your sale? Suppose she’s already running from the police?”

  Knowing that she had absolutely no basis in fact to support what she was suggesting, Penny said, “You know what I think I’ll do. I won’t wait until Tuesday. I’ll call Alvirah Meehan later on today and tell her everything about Ms. Gloria Evans and ask her for her advice. I mean, suppose Evans is running from the police and there’s a reward for finding her? Wouldn’t that be just too much?”

  60

  Fr. Aiden O’Brien began his Friday at seven A.M. serving the breadline outside the church. Today, as usual, there had been more than three hundred people waiting patiently for breakfast. Some of them, he knew, had been on line for at least an hour. One of the volunteers whispered to him, “Notice that we’re seeing a lot of new faces, Father?”

  The answer was that yes, he had noticed. Some of those people attended the senior citizen activities that were now his principal assignment. He had heard from many of them that it was getting to be a choice between food and the medicines they absolutely needed.

  Those concerns were with him always, but today, as he woke up, he had prayed for Zan Moreland and for her child. Was little Matthew still alive, and if so, where had his mother been keeping him? He had seen the suffering in Zan Moreland’s eyes when he took her hands in his. Was it possible, as Alvirah seemed to believe, that Zan was a split personality and didn’t know what was happening in her other persona?

  If that were true, was it the other persona who had come to confession and admitted to being part of an ongoing crime and unable to prevent a murder?

  The problem was that no matter which one came to confession, he was bound by the seal never to reveal what he had been told.

  He remembered how chilled Zan Moreland’s elegant hands had felt when he closed his own over them.

  Her hands. What was it that was nagging him about those hands? There was something, and it was important, but try as he might he simply could not remember it.

  After lunch in the Friary, Fr. Aiden was barely back in his office when he received a call from Detective Billy Collins, requesting to pay him a visit. “My partner and I would like to ask you a few questions, Father. Would it be possible for us to come down immediately? We could be there in twenty minutes at the most.”

  “Yes, of course. May I ask what this is about?”

  “It concerns Alexandra Moreland. We’re on our way, Father.”

  Exactly twenty minutes later Billy Collins and Jennifer Dean were in his office. After the introductions, sitting at his desk facing them, Fr. Aiden waited for one of them to open the conversation.

  It was Billy Collins who spoke first. “Father, Alexandra Moreland paid a visit to this church on Monday evening, did she not?” he asked.

  Fr. Aiden chose his words carefully. “Alvirah Meehan identified her on our security tape as having been here on Monday evening.”

  “Did Ms. Moreland go to confession, Father?”

  “Detective Collins, your name suggests that you are Irish, which means there is a good chance that you are Catholic or, at least, were raised
as one.”

  “I was raised as one and I still am one,” Billy said. “Not that I make it to Mass every Sunday, but pretty regularly.”

  “That’s good to hear.” Fr. Aiden smiled. “But then, as you must know, I cannot discuss anything about the confessional — not only what may have been said within it, but also who was or wasn’t there.”

  “I see. But you did meet Zan Moreland at Alvirah Meehan’s home the other evening,” Jennifer Dean asked quietly.

  “Yes, I did. Very briefly.”

  “Anything she said to you then wouldn’t be under the seal of the confessional, would it, Father?” Dean persisted.

  “It wouldn’t necessarily be. She asked me to pray for her son.”

  “She didn’t happen to mention that she just had cleaned out her bank account and bought a one-way ticket to Buenos Aires for next Wednesday, did she?” Billy Collins asked.

  Fr. Aiden tried not to show how startled he was. “No, she did not. I repeat, we spoke for less than fifteen seconds.”

  “And it was the first time you were face-to-face with her?” Jennifer Dean shot the question at him.

  “Please don’t try to trick me, Detective Dean,” Fr. Aiden replied sternly.

  “We’re not trying to trick you, Father,” Billy Collins said. “But you might also be interested to know that after several hours of questioning, Ms. Moreland didn’t share with us the fact that she’s planning to leave the country. We just found it out ourselves. Well, Father, if you don’t mind we’ll take a look at those security tapes that show Ms. Moreland coming into the church and leaving it.”

  “Of course. I’ll have Neil, our man for all seasons, show them to you.” Fr. Aiden reached for the phone. “Oh, I forgot. Neil isn’t here today. I’ll ask Paul from our bookstore to help you out.”